Dead Nations Society
by AstersandAlyssum
Summary: 25-year-old Gilbert Beilschmidt just got invited to something called the Dead Nations Society, and he's pretty sure it's a hoax. He had his reasons: 1) A crazy cat lady/librarian just claimed that reincarnation was real. 2) So were national personifications, apparently. 3) In a previous life, he was supposed to be the communist GDR. 4) Those dreams were just coincidences... Right?
1. Chapter 1: Auferstehung

**Chapter 1: Auferstehung / _Resurrection_**

* * *

 _They ask Nasreddin Hodja:_

 _"Until when are people going to be born, live and die?"_

 _"Until Heaven and Hell become full," he answers._

* * *

 **Friday.**

 _Dear Gilbert,_

 _You have been cordially invited to the Dead Nations Society! More will be explained should you decide to turn up. We have meetings at the local library every Sunday, from around 3 pm to 5 pm. This is not a hoax :)_

 _Be there or be square!_

 _\- Helena_

Gilbert's eyes flitted over the letter for what seemed like the hundredth time in a row. It was handwritten and scrawled on an old, yellowed piece of paper. Several coffee stains marred the edges, smudging some of the words.

"Who the fuck," He wondered aloud. "Ever says 'Be there or be square'?"

His words seeped into the walls of his shitty old apartment. When he said shitty, he meant popcorn ceilings and garish wallpaper and leaky pipes and crazy rent. And also the fact that he shared it with two _slobs_ who couldn't be assed to pick up their old trash and clothes.

They barely bothered to talk to him. He'd come back wasted and exchange a nod or two with John, or have a shouting match with Caleb over the old, rotting takeout container that was somehow _still_ on the table. Their conversations were curt and snappy, born of three idiots who had no choice but to room together while barely knowing each other.

He threw the letter on the coffee table and flopped back on the couch. Jesus. Their ceiling was terrible. He had half a mind to scrape off all those unawesome ridges with a kitchen knife right that instant, but abandoned that thought in favour of smooshing a cushion onto his face.

He used to be in the home renovation business at one point. There were an awful lot of popcorn ceilings and walls he'd fixed. This one would simply be another victim on his very long list of popcorn destruction.

Right. Dead Nations Society. The stupid letter.

What the hell. This was the third time that week the same letter had been sent to him, in varying forms. He was debating on whether or not to call the cops on them for harassment. Or something. He'll think about it if he actually went through with it.

Gilbert cracked an eye open, pushing his cushion aside to glare at the slightly crumpled letter.

 _This is not a hoax :)_

No matter how innocent that sentence looked, he would _not_ be tided over with the power of hand-drawn smiley faces.

Maybe he'd just ignore the sender and hope they'd give up and stop.

* * *

 **Saturday.**

 _Gilbert,_

 _JUST TURN UP. Seriously. You're being such a huge chicken about it._

 _\- Dietrich (H.)_

Gilbert's eye twitched.

Oh hell no. They did _not_ just call him a chicken.

* * *

 **Sunday.**

He found himself standing outside the local library, staring into the depths of the wall beside the entrance. He tried for a glare. It had that same popcorn texture that made him want to tear the whole thing off in the most violent way possible.

Gilbert glanced at his watch. 2:53 pm. He was early.

Fuck it. He was going in.

With that, he strode dramatically through the automatic doors, greeting the air-conditioning as if it were an old friend.

Their town's library was newly refurbished on the inside, unlike it depressing exterior. Some moderately rich old money guy paid for the renovations for some reason or the other, and now his name was plastered in gold on the walls. He wanted to be able to do that someday, if only to get his name written somewhere in big block letters.

A librarian puttered up and down some shelves nearby. Gilbert grinned and made a beeline for her. The lady smiled pleasantly at him before he could open his mouth to speak.

"Hey!" he hissed in his indoor voice. Everyone always said his usual voice was far too loud. "Know where the Dead Nations Society meeting thingy is?"

The librarian frowned for a bit, before perking up. "Oh! You mean Helena's club? You'll find them in our unused storeroom at the back."

"Thanks," He whipped out one of the letters and squinted at it. The librarian began to trundle off. "Wait. Any idea what people do there? Their invitation was pretty sketchy."

She paused, eyebrows creasing a little. "I'm not too sure myself," Came her apologetic reply. "I think they're some kind of... history interest group. Of sorts."

"Right," That didn't help matters. AP History was his worst subject back in the day. "Thanks."

He sauntered off towards the back of the building, plodding through a labyrinth of shelves and old books. The door was tucked away in a corner, flanked by two potted plants. It was marked 'Storeroom 2' on a little plaque. Beneath it was a piece of paper with 'Dead Nations Society' in Comic Sans.

 _Comic Sans._

This had better not be a waste of his time.

Gilbert twisted the doorknob, swinging the door open.

The room was tiny, 6 feet wide at most without the two large desks occupying most of the space. A large map of the world stretched across the back wall. The floor was bare concrete, unlike the carpeted flooring just outside of it. An exposed bulb bathed the room in warm yellow.

A lady sat at one of the desks, swivelling idly on her chair while poring over some papers. Three others laid all over the floor, clutching large, faded beanbags and lazing about. None of them paid him any mind.

Dang. And he thought he was early.

He cleared his throat as loudly as he could.

The lady's head jerked up in an instant, eyes widening at the sight of him. "Are you here for the meeting?"

"Who the hell is Dietrich?" He demanded.

One of the people on the floor looked over, a small smirk carved on his face. He was a teenager, all floppy blond hair, piercings and rebelliousness.

"That's me," He snickered. "Glad you finally decided to turn up, _chicken_."

He met the kid's eyes. Good Gott, was he like that when _he_ was a teenager? He supposed he was. A slight smirk crept onto his face.

"Compare me to chicks next time," He said. "They're much cuter. And more awesome."

The boy looked so lost after that Gilbert fought the urge to laugh.

"Gilbert, right?" The lady cut in, smiling. "I'm glad you're finally able to make it."

"Right, yeah. What's this about? I'm pretty sure history clubs don't just frickin' invite random people in with some sketchy-ass letters."

"That will be explained in time," She breathed, a slow smile spreading on her face. "Let's do some introductions first and welcome the new guy, shall we? Come and sit on the floor."

"This better not be anything illegal," he warned.

The lady tutted and waved him off.

Gilbert manoeuvred himself awkwardly until he could finally nest himself somewhere between two guys. One of them handed him a dusty beanbag, which he clutched. This was all so _weird_. It was killing his awesome vibe.

The lady clapped her hands "Let's start with Hassan, here, and go clockwise."

Hassan smiled sheepishly from his position next to Gilbert. His hair was wavy, crow's feet crinkling the edges of his eyes. "I'm Hassan. 35 years old this year. I was a fisherman in Sumatra before Helena found me."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow at that. Helena _found_ him?

Next, the boy from earlier jutted his chin out. "S'up. I'm Dietrich Mayer, and I'm awesome. I'm 16."

It was Gilbert's turn. "I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt. 25 years old. And I'm awesom _-er_." He smirked at the boy. "I work at the Starbucks down the street. I still don't know what I'm doing at this meeting."

Dietrich rolled his eyes at him, and Gilbert had the strange urge to snap his neck.

"My name is Brendan Mayer," Came a curt voice. "And I'm that Dummkopf's twin brother. Pleased to meet you."

The voice belonged to a quiet black-haired boy, who was eyeing Gilbert nonchalantly. A small smile was on his lips. Dietrich raised an eyebrow back at him.

"And I'm Helena Karpusi," The lady piped up cheerily. "I'm 29 years old, and a librarian here. I love cats."

"Great. _Now_ can you tell me what's going on?" Gilbert grumbled.

The room immediately went silent. Helena was not meeting his eyes.

"Ooh boy," Went Dietrich.

"Well... It's a long story," Helena muttered evenly. "But I'll explain. Do you want me to ease you in or get straight to the point?"

Gilbert cocked his head. This had better not be anything more sketchy than initially assumed. "The point, _please_."

"Okay," Helena smiled wanly. "We're all dead nations."

There was another silence.

He stared at her. "...What."

"Have you ever heard of the conspiracy theory?" Hassan said. "It was quite popular in my country. It stated that all nations had avatars — Personifications that represented them. They are immortal." He winced. "Well, mostly immortal."

Oh no. They were conspiracy theorists. And possibly insane. He knew something was up. He _had_ heard of the theory before, but he pretty much dismissed it in a second. It was flat Earth levels of stupid. These people were trying to suck him into it and he needed to get out. Now.

"Awesome. Yeah, um, I think I'm just gonna leave—"

He tried to stand up, but his escape was halted by Dietrich grabbing onto his right leg, pouting disapprovingly.

"Aw, fuck off!" He spat. He got ready to punt the teenager across the room.

"Please! I know we sound crazy! But it's true! You need to hear us out!" Helena pleaded.

Something caused him to freeze. Perhaps it was the desperation in her voice, or something more. Maybe it was just _pity_ for these crazy people. It had to be.

"Fine," He grunted. Gott, he was getting _soft_. "So dead nations. I'm listening."

He plopped himself back down, glaring at Helena. She heaved a sigh of relief.

"Okay," Helena continued slowly. "It's like this. Have you ever felt any connection to a nation before? Some sort of calling, or nostalgia, when reading a history book?"

"Nein," he said, flatly. He was starting to regret his decision to stay.

"Maybe he isn't one of us. Khemet probably got it wrong," Dietrich muttered.

"Khemet is never wrong," Helena shot back steelily. That shut him up.

"His last name is Beilschmidt. He is a German nation," Brendan hummed. "One of the German states, perhaps. Like us."

"His last name is still Beilschmidt. It is his first life! He must have been dissolved recently," Hassan added, stroking his beardless chin.

"What the fuck is wrong with you people!" Gilbert screeched.

They ignored him.

"Oh come on, when was the last time a German state got dissolved anyway. It can't be his first life. It's just a coincidence." Dietrich snapped again, more peevish this time.

"Hush," Helena stared at the map behind her. Several territories were marked out, while others were crossed. Her hand trailed over Europe, and then over Germany. Her fingers finally rested upon a little flag tacked onto the map.

"It can't be," She muttered. She looked utterly ecstatic, eyes glinting strangely in the warm light. "Gilbert. When is your birthday?"

Gilbert scowled. "What are you gonna use it for? Why should I tell you—"

"Just answer!"

"Fine! Geez," These people were insane. "November the ninth."

"And the year?"

"1989. Yeah, yeah. Berlin wall falling and all that. I get that all the time."

The whole room went silent.

"Fuck," Dietrich gasped. "You're the DDR."

"...So the personification of East Germany does exist," Brendan murmured, staring at him with wide eyes. "We were under the assumption that Germany's personification was controlling both sides."

"I have to call Khemet at once!" Helena declared, bustling her way to a lousy-looking landline.

"You're East Germany," Hassan breathed. "The German Democratic Republic. I cannot believe it."

The declaration washed over him. A chill ran down his spine. And for a moment, he _knew_. The iron cross and swords and _dissolving_ —

"That's not my name," Gilbert barked. He had to let them know. He _had_ to, before it slipped away again—

Hassan blinked. "Then what is?"

It was gone.

"I..." Why had he said that? What the hell did he just feel? Gott, they were infecting him with weirdness. "Gilbert, of course. You guys are insane. I'm out."

Helena stared at him sadly, but no one made an effort to stop him. He scowled one last time, before turning and shoving his way out of the room.

* * *

 **Monday.**

There was a little yellow canary at his window.

He felt that he should know its name.

* * *

 **Tuesday.**

He had several older brothers. He killed them all to save his younger one. No, he didn't.

How many younger brothers did he have? He was sure they were one.

The tinkling of piano keys trailed him into his sleep.

* * *

 **Wednesday.**

He just touched a girl's chest. He had sinned. To his credit, he didn't know.

Some nights he just knew Gilbert wasn't his name.

* * *

 **Thursday.**

The two empires he had drinks with. There was one more who joined sometimes. When he was sad or rebellious or moping on the Fourth of July.

Two killed him. The other stood and watched and smiled with sad eyes.

He still drank with them after, because that's how they worked. War or death or not.

* * *

 **Friday.**

"Welcome to Starbucks. May I take your order?" Gilbert chirped.

He'd skipped work for the whole of the week, calling in sick, because he was. He'd been sick with _dreams_. Visions that flitted through his mind faster than he could even think.

Orders were passed (murmurs that escaped his lips). Names were called and paper coffee cups given. They were warm in his hands, and real.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He should have called in sick today too.

There was someone at the counter again.

"Welcome to Starbucks. May I take your order?" Gilbert chirped.

"Holy shit, you look really out of it," said the customer.

It was Dietrich Mayer.

"May I take your order?" He pressed, gritting his teeth.

The boy rolled his eyes. "One caramel latte. Bitte, _chicken_."

When the order arrived, he butchered Dietrich's name so badly that he got several dirty looks from other employees. On the cup was a very hastily scrawled 'Diit-rieck'.

"Fuck you," The boy said as he grabbed his latte.

He smirked. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm bad with foreign names."

Dietrich flipped him off.

"Beilschmidt," his manager sighed as he shuffled by him. "Take the rest of the day off. Get some rest."

And so he did. He sloughed off his uniform and trudged out blearily, apron balled in his hands.

Dietrich was right outside, sitting at the kerb and sipping his latte like a wizened old man. "S'up."

"You stalking me or something?" Gilbert grumbled. He ended up plopping himself beside the boy.

"No," Dietrich muttered. "Just checking if you were alright."

"Aw. How sweet. You care about me," Gilbert spat acidly. He was too tired for this.

The boy didn't respond. He turned the cup in his hands, staring into the depths of milky coffee. "I don't want to fight right now."

Gilbert pursed his lips. "Yeah, same here."

"Truce?"

"Truce."

"Great," Dietrich muttered. "I need to talk to you about your dreams because Mama Helena set me up to it."

Gilbert exhaled. "Dreams. Yeah. I've had plenty. I haven't been able to sleep for days. So not awesome."

"The same thing happened to Brendan and me when we found out."

"No, no," Gilbert snapped. "You stop right there. We're not talking about the nations thing. I need to process this."

"You're just in denial, _Dance-Dance Revolution_."

"What the fuck."

The joke dawned upon him.

"What the fuck. How dare you!" Gilbert cried. "That was awful!"

Dietrich ignored him.

"We were like that too, you know. Denying. Then the dreams reached their peak, and they became memories," Dietrich said. He grinned. "Fucking hell, I was awesome. I had a ponytail and this badass scar over my eye. And I just knew, you know? I knew my nation's history, all of it, for, like, five minutes. Reality just stopped being real for a while," His eyes were glittering, alive for once. "Then after that? The memories were just gone, and we had to get our histories from Wikipedia."

He took a swig from the coffee cup as if it were old, bitter liquor.

Gilbert shut his eyes. "Drugs. They're giving us drugs. Somehow."

"Nah," Dietrich's face scrunched up in concentration. "Wanna know how I died?"

 _"No."_

"I faded when my lands went to the Americans," He said, simply. "At least, I think that was what happened. After those five minutes of clarity, your mind just breaks down. At one point I think I was running four territories at the same time. Gott, that was a mess."

Gilbert nodded, not quite understanding. He felt adrift, hearing a kid spout out memories from another life. It couldn't be real. Nations. Countries. They were _lands_. Territories.

The half of a country that died after the wall fell.

"Wait a minute," Gilbert hissed. "You're saying that I'm a _communist_? Really?"

"Sounds just about right," The boy laughed, a familiar cackle with too many consonants. His expression turned wistful, distant. "Gott, we're so similar, aren't we, Gilbert? You picked up all that shit from me. It's awesome shit, but it's still shit."

Gilbert could only stare, speechless for once. The boy stared back at him with too-deep eyes.

What. The Hell.

"You're not yourself right now, are you."

It wasn't a question. The boy shrugged.

"I've only ever been me. I just happened to grow up under different circumstances this time."

The boy turned and sipped from his coffee. Gilbert cradled his own head in he hands. A migraine was coming on.

"You're in too fucking deep, Diet," He said. His voice sounded hollow. The breeze and the crisp asphalt, the afternoon daze. Everything and nothing seemed real. "I don't know what they did to you, to us. They're tricking you. Maybe there're even drugs involved."

Dietrich looked disappointed, eyes still holding that same glassy quality. Then he seemed to shake his head, and it was gone. Stone grey eyes narrowed at him.

"Whatever you say, _chicken_ ," Dietrich drawled. "It doesn't even fucking matter anyway. I'm leaving soon."

"Ja. Leave them. It's for your own good, kid."

"That's not what I meant," The boy glared at him, somewhat petulant. "I'm leaving right now."

He stood up and dumped the empty cup in a nearby trash bin. Gilbert groaned, forcing himself to stand. His joints were on the cusp of creakiness, far too early for his tastes. He was only twenty-five, for goodness' sakes.

"Oh. Need a ride? My car is awesome."

"Nah. No way. I barely even know you," Dietrich grumbled. "I'm walking back, and that's final."

"Fine. Be that way. I'm trying to be a responsible adult here."

Dietrich folded his arms, scrunching his face in the way he sometimes did.

"Wanna be a responsible adult? Then take care of Brendan for me," He snapped. "We aren't that close, but if he fucking dies _again_ , I'm gonna... I'm gonna—"

His voice trailed off, and his face went even scrunchier. "What the _fuck_ am I saying?"

"Drugs," Gilbert theorised, nodding sympathetically.

Dietrich waved him off, pinching his nose. "Ugh. No, no. Never mind. Bye."

The boy turned and walked off. Gilbert shook his head, snorting. A strange twist of nostalgia tweaked at his heart.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Hey! I got hit by this plot bunny a couple of months back, and I guess I'm turning it into a story now!

Out of all the dead nations present, two are OC (Hassan, the fisherman guy, and Brendan, resident sullen teenager. You'll find out which nations they are later). The rest are easily guessable and minor characters in Hetalia. More will be explained about all of them and reincarnation in general after Gilbert stops being a little shit.

This fic takes place in 2014 (so that Gilbert is 25), and is slightly AU because Gilbert dies after the fall of the Berlin Wall. I do not own the cover (I only own the weird edit I made on Paintbrush), and I've managed to trace it back to someone with the pixiv id 797264 (ケイ) I can't find a link to it, though, so here it is on zerochan: www dot zerochan dot net slash 716016

Disclaimer: Not a crossover with Dead Poets Society. It's where I got the title from, however.

Please feel free to comment with anything :D


	2. Chapter 2: Sonnenuntergang

**Chapter 2: Sonnenuntergung / _Sunset_**

 **Saturday.**

* * *

 _ **TEENAGER KILLED IN DEVASTATING HIT AND RUN ACCIDENT**_

 _A 16-year-old boy was killed in a hit-and-run crash Friday night at Northwest Street, local police said. He was identified as Dietrich H. Mayer, a student at Northtown High School._

 _The boy was reported missing at 5_ pm, _and was found deceased at around 10 pm on the side of 2000 Northwest Street,_ metres _away from the town library. Public tip-offs claim he was last seen with an albino man outside a local coffee_ shop, _but said_ man _has been ruled out as a suspect._

 _The Sheriff's office appealed to the public for information about a 2016 Hatchback Ford Focus seen in surveillance—_

* * *

"Gil! I thought you said you were doing cleaning today!"

"Shut up!" He growled.

John snorted and stalked off, leaving Gilbert with his head buried in his hands. Two empty cans of beer lay on the glass coffee table. The article was soaked with spilled alcohol; an almost empty can having been violently thrown onto the paper.

 _I should have just driven him I should have just driven him_

He laid down and felt the burn of alcohol and nausea in his throat.

The ceiling was popcorn. Ugly ridges of paint he could spend hours tracing patterns within.

There was a voice, not his own. From, long, long ago,

 _"...You don't hate yourself for it, you don't wallow in it, but you think it's because of your idea that we're all gone, sometimes."_

There were a face and a gun and a bear. If he squinted, he could make out the faintest outline of the mountains and castles and crisp green trees. He saw Dietrich's smirk on the face of another. A scar streaked down his eye like a comet, familiar and not at once.

 _"All of us agreed that unification would be for the best. He's /us/. Every single member of our empire, at once. I'm proud of him, and of you."_

H.

That was his name. Not Dietrich.

 _Hessen._

* * *

 **Sunday.**

The library air was lemon-scented. Cold, of course, and spiced with little spritzes of air-freshener. Gilbert was clutching a history book between clammy fingers. He had flipped through it feverishly, letting his eyes dart through paragraphs of wars and diagrams and dates.

A nation would have gone through all of that.

Did they fight on the front lines? Could they feel their people die? If they were real, they might. They might have. _He_ might have.

He had a hangover, and he couldn't sleep, and there were waking dreams beneath the surface of his eyes. And a boy had perished just metres from here. Except, he wasn't really a boy. Not really.

He checked his watch. 2:58 pm.

Gilbert stood in front of the door. The sign was still there, sad and wilted and _Comic Sans_. The doorknob was still a little too jiggly.

He swung the door open.

There was only one person in there, and it was Helena. She sat behind the massive desk, laptop open and in front of her. She was staring, wide-eyed at Gilbert.

"Dietrich is dead," He croaked. His eyes stung. "I'm fucking going crazy. And it's your _fault._ "

Then he was sobbing on the floor, weeping like a complete maniac until his eyes went numb and his lungs gave out, and even after that.

* * *

 **Sunday.**

At some point, after his head stopped throbbing and the sobs stopped ripping at his throat, she spoke.

"Hesse," She muttered, hesitantly. "Hesse always leaves the fastest."

It took a while before her words registered. And then he was up again, and burning. Roiling, terrible anger that refused to abate.

"Nein, du _Schlampe_. Don't you DARE. Don't you dare fuckin'—" He slammed his hands onto her desk. "It's not real! IT CAN'T BE! He was just a kid, and if it weren't for you and your fucking club, he wouldn't have died right outside!"

Helena's eyes went cold, and in a flash, she was standing too. "Gilbert Beilschmidt, you will stop this. I do not understand why you Germanic nations are always so stubborn in not accepting the truth, but you will not disrespect this place, or so help me—"

He grinned, something too broad and forced. "Or so help you, _what_? So help you with your crazy games? In your shitty conspiracy theories? Persuading a bunch of people that they're not who they think they are? Give me a break! It's insane, and you know it!"

"I don't understand you. I really, really don't. Are the dreams not enough? Have you not seen your past?"

"The dreams?" He screeched. He could barely think, his head needed to explode and he was _this_ close to attacking the woman. "What am I even supposed to be seeing? Some fucking memories I don't even understand? Are they supposed to keep me awake? Every. Single. NIGHT?"

Gilbert was far too close now. His hands were on her shoulders and squeezing and squeezing. Her arm was around his, firm and strong. She could rip his arms away from her if she wanted to, but her grip slackened. She looked _scared_.

"No," Helena looked horrified, the steel having left her eyes. "No, they aren't."

"They're there when I'm awake too! They can't stop, I can't stop! What the hell did you do to me?"

"I don't understand. I—" She glanced behind her, the _verdammt_ map again. "The dreams should not be that rampant. They should not keep you _awake_."

She looked scared, the mousy little woman. He was tall enough to slam her to the floor and punch her until even her eyes flooded with blood. And she would retaliate and shove him back onto the ground again and again. She would put up a fight because she could, and she was a better fighter than he could ever be, he knew, and he's sure he might lose, but it didn't fucking matter—

 _Why the fuck did he just think that?_

He ripped his hands off he shoulders, head still pounding, and he was starting to wonder when he got so bloodthirsty, and oh Gott his head. His head. His head.

If this were a proper fight, he'd do much better with a sword.

"Why the fuck—" He was yelling out aloud now. He clamped his stupid mouth shut.

" _What the hell did you do?_ " The tears were coming again. "Tell me! Make it stop!"

"I-I can't! I'm sorry. I'm not the one who causes them—"

And suddenly, he was caught in a waking dream, staring out of frozen eyes like a fly trapped in hardening amber. He _knew_ again, and he was confused. The surroundings were strange, his sword was gone, his surcoat was nowhere in sight, and wasn't he supposed to be with West right now?

 _Nein!_ He blinked. _What the fuck?_

"Please!" He gasped, and his mind went fuzzy, blurring all and everything. "Pleasepleaseplease, NEIN! Bitte."

She looked worried now, and guarded, and he wanted to scream but he couldn't. He was being torn apart inside out, he could see all and nothing again and again and again, a waking nightmare.

"I don't wanna die I don't wanna die I—"

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Oh, well, the story is tagged as drama for a reason. All planned guys, all planned.

To that one Hungarian reviewer who said they were starting to like Dietrich, I am so sorry ;-; I swear I didn't want to kill him too, but alas, it had to happen.

So yeah, Dietrich is actually Hesse. I like Hima's design of him, and I sort of have this headcanon that Prussia got his excitability from him, and Germany got the seriousness from Brandenburg. Hima did say that Germany got his stubbornness from Hesse, Saxony and Bavaria, so there's that. One day, I'll post the history notes for each character. Probably as an epilogue.

As for why Gilbert is acting so erratic and violent, more will be explained later. As for now, take it that Gilbert's subconscious is throwing a hissy fit and forcing memories into Gilbert's head because it _really_ doesn't want to be called East Germany.

Today is a double chapter release, because of the shortness of both chapters, so there's another chapter after this. Go read it!


	3. Chapter 3: Reġn

**Chapter 3: Reġn / _Rain_**

 **Sunday - 8 pm, London**

He hadn't eaten dinner yet, and he was a little peckish. Perhaps he could always get himself something after he was done with everything.

It was raining again, as per usual. Fat drops that pattered incessantly against the glass of the window. Thunder that rolled through greying skies. His desk was neatly ordered, stacks and stacks of paperwork filled with his slightly scrawly handwriting. He sat, alone, tap, tap, tapping his ballpoint pen at the edge of the mahogany table, too distracted to get anything done.

The phone rang, and England was jarred out of his stupor.

With a sigh and a grumble, mostly to himself, he reached over and picked it up.

"Hello, Arthur Kirkland speaking, who—"

"Hey, dude!" Came the slightly staticky response.

Ah. Of course.

"You _wanker_ ," England sighed, pinching his nose. "This number is for emergencies. I'm sure I've mentioned this _countless_ times before."

"But this is an emergency!" America protested. "I mean, not exactly, but it's kinda important."

"Oh, sod off," England groaned. "This had better not have anything to do with McDonalds—"

"It does _not_. Seriously, England. Hear me out."

England pursed his lips. America sounded uncharacteristically serious. He had called him 'England'. No, 'Artie', or 'Eyebrows' or, Heavens forbid, ' _Iggy'_. His reason for calling must genuinely be important. At least, well, to him.

"I'm listening," He muttered.

"Yeah. Thanks, man!" He could almost imagine America grinning on the other end. "So, it's kinda like this. A while back, Estonia told me he picked up unusual activity on our servers. It came from my people."

Servers. The nations did have their own collective servers, mainly for the sake of storing their documents — classified information on relations between personifications and with their bosses or whatnot. He also knew America used one of them purely for transmitting scanned copies of his blasted comic books. They were mainly for the sake of privacy, as always. There was the constant fear that their own people would find out about their existence and _lynch_ them.

"What did they do?" England asked.

"Estonia says they tried to access the folder with the old world meeting notes. They didn't get to the useful ones, just the ones with the doodles in it. And the weird-ass, twenty-seven-paged long dumpster fire that Hungary wrote that one time."

"The one with... _us_...in it?"

"Yep, that one."

"Why in hell would that even be in our servers?"

"It's a trap, kinda. Any amateur trying to hack into our files would end up in that folder before any of the others. And then my dude Estonia would find out. My idea, of course."

England rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"Yeah. But the weirdest thing? Years later, they figured out how to leave a note in the folder. And, get this, it just says: ' _Hello. Excuse us; we are very sorry for this intrusion. Let us meet you all. Please tell us the date of the nearest World Meeting and we will come_ _._ ' on TextEdit."

"And when did this happen?"

"Uh. The intrusion happened five years ago, actually. The note came in a week ago."

"Five years ago?" England repeated. His eye twitched. "And you didn't tell the rest of us?"

"Oh c'mon, these sorts of things happen sometimes, you know that. Some crazy people try to get into our servers, and it turns out they don't know anything about us, but they _just_ want to test out their cool new hacker skills, then we catch them and arrest them, no big deal," America rambled nervously.

"And have you caught the bloody gits yet? After five years? After the note?"

"Uh...no?"

England sighed. "Why."

"I...um... _forgot_ about the incident, five years ago," America murmured sheepishly. "But wait, wait. There's more. I forgot, but so did Estonia. What are the odds of two people forgetting something like _this_ at the same time?"

"Fairly high, considering that you're involved," England muttered.

"But both of us suddenly remembered as soon as the note came in. We didn't even know where it came from! Weird, huh?"

"Perhaps."

"Estonia had the Nordics over one day, and they saw the note. Norway straight up said there was magic involved. Then they got Romania over, and _he_ threw a fit," America explained. "He said that the hacker used magic to make us forget that they tried to access the server."

England damn near dropped the receiver onto the floor.

"Magic," He gasped. "They used magic? Oh, bloody hell."

"Yeah. I knew you'd freak."

"I did not _freak_. It's just—" England stared into his desk, stomach clenching strangely. "The mage is powerful enough to cast memory spells. Hell, that is forbidden amongst humans."

"They want to meet us too. Y'know, _us_. The nations," America pointed out. "That sort of looks like a huge problem."

"They hacked into our server and used magic," England spat. "Of course it's a huge problem! I'm assuming you can't track them down either?"

"Yep. No dice. But I'll try harder. I'm the hero, remember?" crackled America's voice. "I'll find those hacker dudes."

England bit his lip. "Not if they're using magic to cover their tracks."

"Ugh, screw that," He could hear the sound of muffled chewing over the line. "I'll get you voodoo nations in on it too."

England sighed again, more exasperated this time. Unfortunately for him and his reputation as a mage, tracking another mage down could prove utterly fruitless without direct exposure to their aura. Norway and Romania could attempt to as well, though he didn't think they'd get very far. Trying to examine the note and the two nations affected by the memory spell might be a logical course of action, but he doubted the mage had slipped up anywhere. Of course, they were operating under the assumption that their opponent was human. He hoped they were. If they weren't, England would be very, very concerned. He rubbed his temples, trying to sooth his building migraine.

"No," England muttered. "We can't track them down."

The muffled chewing continued, this time, complete with some slurping. "...Oh."

"But," He continued slowly. "We can draw them to us."

"Whadd'ya mean?"

"This is a serious issue, is it not? One that might threaten our collective safety," England mused. He wound the phone cord around his finger, watching as it went round and round. "This would certainly be a good basis for a world meeting."

"World meeting?" America cried. "But wouldn't they come—" He could almost feel the realisation dawn upon America. "Oh... Yeah. I get it. That's so cool! It's like a plot in a spy movie or something! Thanks, Artie! I'll go call the other nations! Bye!"

"Wait, wait, we're not done discussing this—"

The line went dead.

"America, you little brat," He hissed.

There was no one to hear him. But if there were, they might pick on the tinge of endearment in his words that was definitely where it shouldn't be.

He shook his head, and eyed the pen clutched within his fingers. With a frown and a flick of his wrist, it transformed, lengthening and shifting. As the light cleared, the star of his wand clacked against the table.

Someone was using magic against the nations. Someone knew who they were. That someone may not even _be_ a someone, but rather, some _group_.

He groaned. Confound his dinner; he was far too stressed to eat.

With a flourish of his trusty wand, a cup of Earl Grey materialised before him, summoned from his personal tea collection. He picked it up and sipped carefully.

Then the blasted phone rang again.

He grabbed it with such ferocity he was sure he snapped the cord.

" _Yes_?"

"Bonjour, _Angleterre_ ," The caller breathed.

He picked his cup again and sipped so obnoxiously loud that he was sure France was cringing.

"This better be an emergency, _Frog_ , or I swear, I'll—"

"Do you believe in reincarnation?"

" _What?_ "

"Answer me, do you?" To England's dismay, France sounded slightly drunk.

He shut his eyes. "Yes, I do, of course. I've seen far too many familiar human souls for reincarnation to simply be a theory."

"Oui, oui," wailed France. "That much is true. But what about us? Our kind? What happens when we die? Do you... Do you believe that we—"

He dissolved into dramatic weeping over the phone. There went any chance of England having a peaceful evening.

"Oi, Frog," England sighed. "What happened?"

"Non, something is _happening_. Present tense! I can feel it!" France screeched.

"France," He tried again, louder this time. "What. Happened."

" _Ma maman_! I saw my mother! I saw Gaul with my own eyes!" France cried. "It was her! I swear! She didn't look like Gaul, but it

 _was_ her!"

England's blood went cold. "Gaul. You saw Gaul? How!"

"I DON'T KNOW! Why does this keep happening to _moi_! It is like Lisa all over—"

The sounds of a struggle ensued, and after a lot of protesting, there was another voice.

"Hello. Who is this?"

"England. Who are you?"

"The Netherlands. France invited all of Gaul's children."

"Do you have any idea what is going on?"

"I don't—" France's wailing peaked in a terrifying scream somewhere in the background. Belgium's voice could be heard trying to calm him down. "I don't know. Something is up."

"I see. Do you need me to come over and knock some sense into him?"

What was possibly Luxembourg was now joining in the chaos in the background. He seemed to be soothing things over with another man, presumably a very distressed bar owner.

"No," The Netherlands continued curtly. "I think we're being kicked out of the bar. I will call you if you need to pay for damages. I am not doing that. Goodbye."

For the second time that day, England was unceremoniously hung up upon. He pressed his hand to his head, and took an even longer sip out of his tea.

Dead nations and magic hackers. Something was definitely up.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

And the plot thickens. Oooo.

Also, I'm running on the headcanon that Gaul's actual children are the Benelux nations. France was more of an adoptive / bastard child with the Franks. In other words, he was raised separately. This explains why France doesn't necessarily consider himself as siblings with the Benelux Bunch.

Second headcanon: France has the ability to sense reincarnations or reincarnated souls of people he once knew better than the other nations. Connections are his thing. And he's always been a little sensitive. Probably how he found and recognised Lisa/Jeanne almost instantly.

The living nations don't know the dead nations aren't dead. The dead nations don't know much about the living nations at all. Hmm...


	4. Chapter 4: Geschichte

**Chapter 4: Geschichte / _History_**

 **Sunday.**

"Well, Schiesse," He sniffed. "That was embarrassing."

Helena nodded slowly, eyes still glued onto the computer screen. Gilbert was half-buried by a pile of snot-covered tissues.

The room was a complete disaster. He'd freaked and ripped the map off the walls. Stationery was scattered everywhere after he swiped everything off the desk. And there were, of course, the tissues.

"It is fine," She breathed. "Let it all out."

"I swear. I am helping you to clean this up later," He shut his eyes, chuckling hoarsely. "Gott, I'm such a dick."

"Well, to be fair to you, worse has happened," She shrugged placidly. "One man attempted to burn our previous meeting room to the ground. It's the reason why this library got renovated."

"I didn't know. Actually, I don't know a damned thing about this place," Gilbert replied nasally. He reached for another tissue to blow his nose out on. "I moved here two months ago."

Helena nodded, tapping away at her keyboard. It was awkward. He was this close to bursting into tears again like some 5-year-old, in front of a lady he barely even knew.

"Right. Yeah, fuck, this is not awesome," He heaved and blew his nose again. "So. About that nation thing—"

She finally stopped typing. Her head turned to gaze at Gilbert. "Oh. You sure you want to talk about that now?"

"You were gonna talk to me about my feelings otherwise," He spat, petulantly. "And I'm _not_ talking about sappy stuff."

"You guessed right," She sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"First off, are you usually this bad at breaking it to people?" He shook his head. "No wonder some guy tried to burn the place down."

"Yes," Helena admitted. "Usually, I'd wait till the dreams come, or tell them to treat it like a particularly elaborate LARP. But you seem to be a special case."

He cringed. His huge meltdown was pretty bad. "Okay, first off, I'm not usually like... this. It's just, uh, I haven't slept in a week. I'm a little hungover. And Dietrich... he..."

Gilbert let his voice trail off.

"Ah," Helena sighed. "I'm sorry."

He glared at her. "No. Feelings."

"It isn't just that, I think. You started having a dream in the middle of it."

"Ja. Ugh," He shut his eyes. "That sucked."

"It is alright. You were under a lot of stress."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Gilbert sighed.

"I still don't believe it," He stated. "Just sayin'."

"Then treating it like LARPing helps."

"No fucking way. I'm not a nerd."

"There's nothing wrong with being a nerd, Gilbert."

"Kesesese," He murmured dryly. "That's what you say."

"Did you just," Helena frowned. "Enunciate your _laugh_?"

"What, got a problem with that?"

"No, no," She hummed. Shutting her laptop, she smiled at Gilbert. Her eyes were shadowed with sleeplessness; her face pale despite her Mediterranean complexion. "We should get back to the topic at hand. What else do you want to know?"

Gilbert rubbed his puffy eyes and thought for a long while. "If the nation thing _were_ real, which nation were you supposed to be?"

Helena rubbed the back of her head self-consciously.

"Ancient Greece and the Byzantium."

He had a sudden vision of Helena in a stereotypical Ancient Greek chiton, a wreath of laurels on her hair. His history skills might be utter shit, but he knew some general knowledge, at least. Ancient Greece was regal, ancient, philosophical, and downright _awesome_.

"What the fuck," He muttered. "That's insane. You can't just say that!"

"It's true," She insisted gently. "In fact, well, the older and more influential your nation is, the better you are at recalling memories. The stronger your soul would be. Sometimes, you can develop powers too."

His gaze instinctively met Helena's eyes, and he looked at them. _Really_ looked this time. They were calm and flat, like a sheet of glass, greener than the greenest olives. Perfectly sane.

This, Gilbert realised, could mean one of two things. 1) What she was saying was true, and therefore, so was the whole human nations thing. Or 2) She was so insane she thought she was _sane_.

A strange sense of emptiness scraped at his chest. Maybe the former option _was_ correct. Maybe he'd been too busy cutting himself on Occam's Razor to _realise_ that it was (what an awesome analogy, he was gonna file that away for later). Maybe logic wasn't very logical, after all.

Nah, who was he kidding, he was just really fucking stubborn.

And he still didn't believe it. Not quite. He'd just treat it like roleplaying then (he wouldn't tell anyone, he was not a nerd). Like something not quite real, but also not a complete scam. Or maybe, he just wouldn't think about it at all.

"Uh huh," He acknowledged. "So you must remember a whole lot, right?"

"Yes, actually," Helena replied, looking thoughtful. "Both Ancient Egypt and I recall memories from our previous lifetimes."

His eyebrows shot up. "What the _fuck_."

"It started sometime after World War II. We just started... _remembering_. Just like that. The only one I cannot truly recall is my first. The one where I was Ancient Greece first and the Byzantium, after. The rest of my lifetimes simply turned into mush in the sands of time. I can only remember important details," She frowned, eyebrows creasing into a thin line.

Gilbert started fiddling with the zipper of his hoodie. His mind was completely and utterly blank. "Yeah. Ja. Uh huh."

Then she smiled. "But no worries. In a life, there may sometimes be a point where we finally do remember our first lives, and we get the memories back for... five minutes? Or so? It depends, one might retain some memories, and they last the rest of that lifetime. Until we die and reincarnate after, at least."

"Alright, alright, stop. I can't do this anymore. No more reincarnation stuff." He grumbled, placing a hand to his head.

Helena looked concerned. Gilbert sighed. He was _so_ not going to talk about sappy things if Helena decided to ask if he was alright. "I mean, is there anything else we can talk about? Like the other dead nations, or something?"

"Of course," She beamed. "What would you like to know?"

"You said that reincarnations could get abilities, right? What sort of awesome powers can we get, then? Super strength? Super speed?" Gilbert asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing like that. Most of the abilities are related to both a nations' past and reincarnation as a concept. Magyar, for example, always reincarnates in Hungary. Srivijaya will always be born near to Majapahit. And Hesse—" Helena glanced at him. Gilbert nodded slowly. "Hesse would sometimes reincarnate into four separate people, each containing a piece of his soul."

Hesse.

He shook his head.

"So living nations exist too."

"We're trying to make contact with them. It has been decades, years and years of searching, and yet we cannot find them."

"How big is this society? Is this just a branch or—" Gilbert frowned. "Are there more of you?"

"This is a branch, yes. We have at least twelve other small groups like this one. In every group, there has to be at least one empire," Helena explained. "The empires have the ability to draw the souls of the reincarnated to them. Dead nations would just turn up nearby, and Khemet — um, that is, Ancient Egypt — would be able to sense if one is near an empire and their human names. Then she'll ring the empire up, and they'll go find them."

"Whoa," Gilbert said. "So is every dead nation ever a human somewhere?"

"In theory, yes. But we haven't been able to find all of them," She winced. "Rome. Ancient Rome is completely missing, for example. We don't know if Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia count. They could have split themselves up for all we know, because we can't find them. At all. And don't get me started on the USSR," She pinched her nose, as if soothing a migraine. "We had a big fight on whether or not they actually _were_ a personification."

She glanced over at Gilbert, and he cringed. She seemed worried that he might just completely snap. Again.

"Sometimes," She continued. "Reincarnations just drop off the radar. Neutral Moresnet, for example, reincarnated exactly once, about thirty years ago. He had the ability to locate the positions of the personifications of Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands at all times. It was the closest we got to coming into contact with the living nations."

Helena slowed a little, eyeing him carefully. She was doing that a lot in a past few minutes, staring with those impassive green eyes and judging, gauging his reaction. The hairs on his neck prickled, and suddenly he was on guard, in that same slightly foreign way he did when he completely lost his mind earlier.

"And, of course, there was the whole Prussia debacle," She looked even more frustrated now. "You do know what Prussia was, right?"

"Ja," He scratched his head. "It's one of the Germanic states, isn't it? My Vati said we had Prussian ancestors."

He may or may not have written an essay on it in fifth grade, but that was as far as he got.

"Good. Then you'd know that it is dead. There was some controversy amongst our kind, after its... _untimely demise_."

Gilbert snorted. "Do I even wanna know?"

"Well," Helena hummed. "It's a long story. It's just— The concept of memories. Receiving old memories, and personality traits you never knew you had. I've seen reincarnations _break_ under them, usually under great stress, a culmination of hundreds of years of war and conquering just hitting them and _ruining them_. And so," Helena glanced at the fallen map. "We tend to blacklist some of the more, ah, _volatile_ Dead Nations."

"Blacklist?"

"It is where we don't actively look for their reincarnations. We let their lives pass them by without them ever knowing the truth."

"And Prussia is blacklisted," He guessed, flatly.

"Well, actually," Helena shrugged helplessly. "We think the country is well and truly dead. Prussia was killed in a very strange manner, after all."

Her expression reeked of past trauma. Yikes.

"But if its personification does ever reincarnate..." Her voice trailed off. "Things would get _very_ bad."

There was a silence. It was stifling.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. I won't pry," He tried for a smile. A subject change was in order. "What sort of unawesome powers does East Germany have, anyway? The ability to be utterly broke in every single lifetime?"

That wasn't even a joke. His wallet was getting dangerously light recently.

Helena was blinking at him, eyes glinting like that of a cat.

"Gilbert," Helena said firmly. "Are you feeling better now?"

Gilbert cracked his knuckles. He _was_ actually. Somehow, hearing weird, somewhat historical garbage spout from Helena's mouth was calming, in a sense. A trance that seemed to stretch on for forever. It took his mind off depressing things, like—

His insides clenched. He suddenly needed to expel the contents of his stomach in the most disgusting way possible.

His own _body_ was betraying him now. What the fuck was he doing? He shouldn't be this upset about some boy he just met dying.

It was his fault, the death, of course, but _still_.

He shook his head.

"Given that you've just expositioned the _shit_ out of me for the past half an hour? I'm doing awesome," He chuckled. More jokes. Hurrah. Why, Ja, of course this was a perfectly reasonable coping mechanism.

"Sure," Said Helena, looking somewhat doubtful.

"I'm gonna help you clean this up," Gilbert announced, successfully diverting the conversation topic. Man, he was awesome at deflecting questions.

Before Helena could even respond, he was already picking the fallen pencils up.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

Exposition time!

I may as well call this story Gilbert and the 3000 OCs at this point. In some enormous lapse in judgement, I honestly had no clue just how many OCs / semi OCs / minor characters I'd need to create for the sake of this story. I mean, I should have expected it, dead nations and all. But this story mainly focusses on this bunch and the canon nations, so uhh, you'll see.

 _ **Neutral Moresnet —**_ Very, very, small bit of neutral territory between the Netherlands, Belgium and Prussia from 1816 to 1819. It's personification was a weak infant which barely made it past its first birthday before perishing. It's reincarnation that one time had zero memories from his time as Neutral Moresnet, and was a sickly child almost driven mad by his ability. They found him with Khemet's help. He could only point at maps and squirm and cry, and the society members couldn't figure it out until it was too late. The reincarnation died by age 4.

Also, Gilbert doesn't know he is Prussia, whoops. Everyone assumed he was East Germany and East Germany only.


	5. Chapter 5: Anfang

**Chapter 5: Anfang / _Beginning_**

 **Monday**

Gilbert had covered the furniture with several large sheets of plastic. They crinkled pleasantly when he shuffled over them, or when his wobbly ladder shifted.

The popcorn texture on his ceiling came off without a hitch. Rough bumps of paint surrendered to the might of his very awesome floor scraper, falling like dust in massive swathes. It was satisfying. It was _very_ satisfying. He hoped there wasn't any asbestos in any of that shit. With a rough tug of the scraper, more popcorn fell. The showering of outdated ceiling bits against plastic was music to his ears.

Hopefully, his landlord wouldn't kill him for this.

* * *

 **Tuesday.**

 _ *****You have two new messages from "Starbucks Manager Guy"*****_

 _Hello, Gilbert, I'm sorry to say, but you've been laid off from your job here, effective immediately. Rumours have been flying about that hit and run accident and some people think you have something to do with it. Some people have been asking for you._

 _We're a small town. We don't trust newcomers...we cannot afford to keep you here if you might affect our customer base. Pls don't come back, we'll send you your pay next week._

Gilbert shut his eyes, gripping his phone so hard he was sure he might crack the screen.

He needed a fucking drink.

* * *

 **Tuesday.**

"It was high time someone got rid of that ceiling, anyway," His landlord muttered, nose wrinkling. "It is _dreadful_."

His landlord happened to be pretty chill, which worked well for Gilbert and his home renovation shenanigans. Mr Adler was a middle-aged schoolteacher. He had an ex-wife — the cause of all that terrible home decor — whom he griped about occasionally (and by _occasionally_ , he meant _at every opportunity_ ). Unfortunately for his tenants, he seemed to be just as challenged in interior design. The poor apartment had been stuffed chock full of French furniture in recent years. Sure, it looked nice, but Gott, everything was so _girly_.

"You mean 'was'," Gilbert snorted. "It's gone now."

Adler (what was his first name, even?) smiled his crooked smile, before tipping Gilbert a fresh glass of beer. He had sharp eyes, that man. They nearly gave Gilbert a heart attack when he interviewed him for his eligibility as a tenant.

"So, Gilbert. Should you not be at work now?" His landlord asked. He might have seemed conversational, but those _eyes_.

He winced. "I got fired through text. It's about the accident."

"Tsk," Mr Adler shook his head. "Of all places, you chose to work at _Starbucks_. This is exactly what you'd expect from them."

"Don't bring your anti-coffee agenda into this," Gilbert countered snidely.

The man shook his head again, fingernails drumming against his cup. "Given that you've just been retrenched, we should certainly talk about your rent. I understand it is your turn to pay this month."

"Fuck," Gilbert growled, pressing his head into his palm. Mr Adler may be nice, for a landlord, but his rent wasn't exactly the cheapest. "Yeah, that's... uh..."

He fixed his eyes on the corner of one very elaborate French table.

"Do not fret," Mr Adler said, eyes crinkling with slight mirth. "For that excellent job with the ceiling, I shall allow for some negotiation. We'll discuss the lowered price once everyone else gets back."

"Thank Gott!" Gilbert nearly screamed in sheer relief. He might have had an actual aneurysm if things went badly with the rent too. His week was going terribly enough as it is. "You're the most awesome landlord! Ever!"

"Danke, Mr Beilschmidt," Mr Adler set his glass down. "I try."

They sat together in comfortable silence, Gilbert staring at the strange piece of abstract art (probably also French) framed onto the wall behind his landlord. He couldn't help but grin a little. The condensation from his glass was dripping onto his lap, and he shifted it back onto the (French, _ugh_ ) coaster. Suddenly, his hand trembled, ever so slightly, and the beer slopped threateningly, splashing about within the cup.

Something pricked at the back of his head. Pain. Agonising but blessedly quick. The air shuddered out of his lungs. A flash of light, no, a vision danced at the edge of his eyes, and Gilbert could only wince.

"Not now!" He protested, forcing himself to stare and stare and stare at that piece of art. It seemed to help, a little. The pressure behind his eyes seemed to lift. He was fairly sure, at this point, that those things were definitely _not_ dreams. 'Visions' would probably be more appropriate.

"Gilbert?" Mr Adler's voice seemed to come from far away.

"M'fine," He managed. "Just dreaming. I kinda—"

His phone buzzed in his pocket, once, twice, and the shitty recorder rendition of 'My Heart Will Go On' blasted through the afternoon air. His head cleared fucking _instantly_ , and he had to blink a little to focus.

Mr Adler looked utterly scandalised. "Good heavens, what is that?"

"My ringtone," Gilbert explained, as the second verse of high-pitched sappy love song shredded at his phone speakers. Mr Adler placed a hand to his head.

He waited for a while longer, enjoying the terrible song, before finally fishing his phone out. It was an unknown number. He scowled. He'd hoped it was his manager, preferably calling to apologise for firing him via text.

"Pick it up! Please! My ears!"

He did just that. The awful whistling ceased. "Hey. Who's this."

"Hello. Is this Gilbert Beilschmidt?"

"Hell yeah, it is."

"This is Helena. You need to come to the meeting room right away. It's an emergency."

Gilbert's eyes widened, and his back went ramrod straight. Fuck. It was them again. "This better not be anything too crazy."

"...You'll have to see. Please turn up. I know you might be working right now, but please do try—"

"I got fired."

There was a silence on the other end.

"...Oh. Oh dear. I am so sorry," Helena whispered.

He chuckled hoarsely, wincing a little. "What's it about?"

"This meeting..." He could hear Helena's exhale. "It's about the living nations."

Gilbert stared at the painting, tracing the swirls on the strange brush strokes. Funny how his life could go so wrong in so few days. "Right. Gimme five minutes. I'll be there."

He heard the phone click off, and he sighed. Mr Adler raised an eyebrow at him. He returned a shrug and slipped the phone back into his pocket. The other man laced his fingers together. "Leaving so soon?"

"Yeah," Gilbert made a face. He picked up his cup and downed its contents. "Sorry. Emergency appointment."

Those eyes watched him again. "You have fun."

He grinned and mock-saluted Mr Adler, and then he was off.

* * *

 **Tuesday.**

He was getting plenty of stares from the people around him. More than usual, at least. His albinism and awesome looks tended to cause that. But no, the people were staring somewhat accusingly, and there was more than a fair share of whispers being floated around as he plodded his way across the parking lot.

It was as the manager said. They all thought he killed _him_. Knocked him down or led him away to die. He scowled and went a little faster, jogging his way into the entrance of the library.

The sign, previously typed in Comic Sans, had been ripped off and replaced with a far more dignified Times New Roman version. Sadly, some _idiot_ had decided to insert clipart (the terrible, outdated kind you'd find everywhere in _2007_ ) of a globe on the sign, forever marring it. It was unsalvageable now. He was about _this_ close to throwing his arms up in despair.

"Mr Beilschmidt?"

He turned, and nearly toppled the potted plant beside him in his haste. It was the Indonesian guy from the first society meeting he'd joined, staring quizzically at him. He looked tired, like Helena did.

"Oh, hey there..." Fuck. What was his name? "... _you_."

The man still looked a little confused. "It's Hassan. You want to come in? The door isn't locked."

"Yeah. Sure. It's just," Gilbert gestured flatly at the sign. Hassan didn't seem to get it. "This thing is an atrocity."

"Brendan," The other man glanced over for a brief moment, before shrugging. "Brendan says that it's ironic."

Gilbert chose not to respond to that. He twisted the jiggly doorknob and pushed it in, bracing the door open for the other man as they stumbled through.

The room was still clean and relatively neat from the last time Gilbert had cleaned it up. And there were several moving things in the place. He realised, belatedly, that they were cats. Five or six of them, just milling about.

Helena and Dietrich's brother were already inside, crowding over a laptop. They looked up as soon as the door swung open.

"Hello," Helena greeted, reading glasses perched haphazardly on her nose.

Brendan didn't respond at all. His eyes, shadowed by his long bangs, were tinged with red and very puffy. They remained fixed onto the screen of the laptop, scarcely paying the rest of them any attention.

"Brendan?" Hassan asked, tentatively.

"What are you doing here," Came the response, flat and hollow.

Hassan seemed to tense, and whatever dry remark that was going to fly out of Gilbert's throat died in his mouth. His brain was still fuzzy, at best. Between sleeplessness, the buzz of alcohol and the remnants of a _dream_ , and he couldn't think of a thing to say to the hostility in Brendan's tone. Things were wrong. No, things were going wrong.

"Same as all of you," Hassan muttered, measuredly.

"No. You're just following Helena around like a dog," Brendan spat, looking up and glaring at the man. "She doesn't want you here. She likes _cats_ better. Doesn't she."

Helena's eyes snapped up to the boy. "No! What—"

"Brendan," Hassan continued, face crumpling. "You know I had nothing to do with your brother—"

"Shut up."

The temperature in the room seemed to plunge. Hassan looked stricken. "I know you must be feeling terrible—"

"Shut. Up. Could you please just,"—Brendan choked—"Just. Leave this room? Please? I don't want you here."

There was a silence as Hassan stared blankly in front of him. His skin, Gilbert noted, was creased and calloused, ridden with sun damage. Thirty-five years old, wasn't he? His features made him look far older.

Helena's eyes flicked between Brendan and Hassan, as if unsure if she should interfere. She licked her lips and pushed her glasses up.

"Hassan," She said. And then came her trademark Helena mothering look, a cross between stern and sorry.

Hassan glanced at Gilbert, and back at Brendan. His brows creased. " _Baiklah,_ _nak._ I am sorry."

He inclined his head and backed out of the door, shutting it with a quiet click. Brendan shoved a hand to his face. The only sound in the room was that of his quiet sniffling, and sobs that rang sharp and devastating.

"Uh," Gilbert started, suddenly unsure.

Helena's expression morphed into one of barely-disguised panic. She wrung her wrist quickly, hand over Brendan's hunched back. Gilbert remained, feet stuck to the ground, eyebrows raised, completely floored. She had to start mouthing 'go' pretty hard before Gilbert had the sense to get the hell out of the room.

A few stumbles later, he whisked himself out of the door, the wave of freshly-scented library air slamming into his nose and filling his lungs. He hadn't quite noticed how musty the storeroom was until that point.

Hassan was on the floor outside, blank expression still on his face. He turned to look at Gilbert, the edge of his lips quirking into a half-hearted smile.

Several seconds later, the door was thrown open again, and Helena clacked out hurriedly, heels driving into stiff carpeting, arms around two cats. The door clicked shut.

"He wishes to be left alone," She whispered.

One cat mewled. Helena nuzzled her chin into its (fluffy!) fur.

"I see," Hassan exhaled. His expression remained unreadable. "He did just lose his brother, after all."

Gilbert was silent, for once. Mostly because he couldn't think of a single damned thing to say to all of this. And also because he thought he might start yelling as soon as he opened his mouth.

Helena sighed. "Let's just go outside."

* * *

 **Tuesday.**

"You brought two cats out, but not your damned _laptop_?" Gilbert spluttered.

They were all sitting outside the library, backs against the popcorn wall. Helena looked a little sheepish, and Hassan was trying to pet the white cat. It didn't work. Gilbert watched as the cat pointedly ignored Hassan's reaching hands, choosing, instead, to leap right into Helena's chest.

"To be fair," Helena ran her hand through the fur of the cat, and it purred. "I was in a hurry."

"I brought my phone out," Hassan stated, a little quietly.

"And—" Gilbert frowned. "And. You left Brendan inside? Alone? Are you _shitting_ me?"

"I know. We'll be back in no time," Helena sighed. "Time alone means time alone, Gilbert. Trying to talk to him will yield no results. He'll just get angrier."

"You should still be there with him, Ms Karpusi," Went Hassan again, slightly louder and a little less placidly this time.

"I know, your concerns are valid. But please, let me talk to both of you about the emergency first," Helena said, rather firmly. "It is an _emergency_ for a reason."

The two of them shut themselves up.

Helena continued stroking her cat, very much resembling a stereotypical villain. "About an hour ago, Khemet sent me something. I don't have it with me right now, but—"

Hassan wordlessly shoved his phone at her.

"Thank you. Er, let's see..."

She started squinting at the screen and typing. Gilbert leant back onto the wall, getting his back jabbed by thousands of tiny paint bits. Ugh. His home renovation senses were tingling again, but his heart wasn't quite in it this time. His mind wandered right back to Brendan — leaning, distraught over his own thin, shaking hands and weeping his little heart out.

The parking lots lay in rows before them, heat shimmering off the tarmac and making the cars ripple like mirages. There was something colourful wavering at Gilbert's periphery, and he turned his head to look. At the side of the snaking road, a tiny collection of flowers and candles gathered, a tribute to a rude, blond boy who had taken his final breaths there.

A jolt ran through him, and for the first time in days, he felt like himself. No strange anger, or complete and utter grief. Just a sort of... emptiness.

He'd barely known him; Gilbert knew that. And half the damned town thought _he_ killed him. There was a horror, deep inside him, that seemed to grow larger and hollower the more he thought about it; the more he felt. Maybe he did.

He did. In another life. Didn't he?

It was a strange feeling. Just being _aware_ of how fucked the whole situation was, all of a sudden. It took Helena clearing her throat to tear his burning eyes away from the little memorial.

"There we go," She pushed the phone in front of them. "Read this."

Hassan craned his neck to look over, and Gilbert squinted at it from his spot beside Helena. It seemed to be a webpage of some sort. He had to blink a little to adjust to the brightness of the screen.

"'Capitol Complex events?'" He read aloud. "What?"

"Look further down," Helena instructed.

There was a list of events displayed, mostly weddings and ceremonies, and with all the details written. At the top of the list, however, was something else: 'World Ambassadors Meeting' — displayed in bold print.

"Funny how that should be scheduled on a page for _public events_ ," Helena hummed.

"'Capital Complex'," Hassan repeated, frowning. "Is that the one in this state? In..." He paused to think. "...Harrisburg, isn't it?"

"The Pennsylvania State Capitol Complex, yes," Helena confirmed. "Why would an event involving international ambassadors occur in PA, of all places?"

"It's weird, yeah," Gilbert piped up, raising an eyebrow. "But why is this an emergency? So what, they're holding some politic-ky event in Harrisburg. This has nothing to do with anything."

"Because," Helena said rather slowly, as if she were getting a point across to a small child. "It's a _world meeting_."

Gilbert's eyebrow went higher. "The fuck is a world meeting."

"It is where the living nations come together," Helena explained, going even slower this time. "...to have a _meeting_."

"Don't patronise me," He grumbled.

"I'm not!" Helena yelped. "I'm just trying to break it to you in a way that won't end with you. Um. _Freaking out_."

"Right," Gilbert snorted. "Like I would freak out at living nations having a—" His back went straight, realisation striking him like a sack of bricks. "What! Did you just say _living nations_?"

"I did."

The hollowness in his chest seemed to empty itself out even more. He dimly recalled Helena saying the living nations were a thing too, but there was no way they could be this _tangible_. They were a concept. Helena didn't say they were humans, specifically. Fuck. Did they look human? A flash of something Eldritch came into his mind, something abstract and incomprehensible, like the art on Adler's wall — something writhing and terrible, more immortal monster than human.

Then he realised that could have been _him_ in a previous life.

The colourful paint splatters solidified into white and red, and then into _him_ but it wasn't quite, he was warped and monstrous, and curse his overactive imagination. He was queasy again. "That is not possible. There is no way—"

"I thought we were over this, they do exist, Gilbert—"

"No, No. That's not what this is about. Why the fuck would they even have a meeting in PA? What would their meetings be about—"

"Now if you would quieten down and listen, I would elaborate."

She had a point.

Gilbert folded his arms, breath leaving his mouth in a forceful exhale. "Ja. Explain."

"One of the points of our little society is to find a way to contact the living nations. To let them know that we still exist. We get the idea that they might think we're dead, and we _are_. But you know what I mean." Helena winced. "We've been trying for so long, but something always stops us before it can happen. It's like fate decided to—

"Hold up. Are living nations human?" Gilbert asked.

"Yes? I mean, they look human, based on our memories."

"Oh thank Gott," Gilbert exhaled. Things suddenly became a lot easier.

"But none of us can remember how they look like. Even in memories, we can't quite—" She gestured vaguely. "— _see_ their faces. They're all smeared."

"That doesn't matter," He waved Helena off. "I got worried for a sec."

"I thought that much was obvious, but I'm glad I could clarify," Helena nodded. "You're right, though. Something is fishy. Meetings don't quite happen like this."

"Then maybe it isn't them," Hassan suggested from his corner. "We have had a lot of false alarms."

Helena shifted, suddenly looking rather pale.

"Those were from me. Khemet can't be wrong," Helena shot back. "She has her magic."

"She does," Hassan agreed. "But—"

Helena's eyes narrowed. "We're going to be travelling there tomorrow, and see how we can find a way to meet them. The meeting is in two days. Pack your things, and we'll meet in the room tomorrow at 9 a.m."

Gilbert spluttered. "The _fuck_. Tomorrow?"

"Yes," Helena stood right back up, teetering on her heels, not quite meeting either of their eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go check on Brendan."

"Hey! What do you mean by—"

Helena bustled off, leaving Gilbert to baulk. The place flooded with a wave of cold air as the doors slid open. Helena clacked through. The two cats mewled and slipped away from them, chasing Helena back into the building.

Gilbert groaned, slamming back onto the wall. Hassan was still in the exact same position, frozen in place.

Hassan shifted. "We do this often."

Gilbert turned to look at Hassan. "Do what?"

"Try to find World Meetings. Plans are very last minute."

There was a silence. The And then:

"They still don't trust me."

He was staring at the memorial, Gilbert realised, eyes glazed.

"They don't trust you?" He echoed, raising an eyebrow at the man. "What, did you try to murder them or something?"

He shrugged. "Something like that."

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Har har, very funny."

"...I'm not kidding."

He blinked. He took a moment to just stare into the sky, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Aw _fuck._ "

"I lied when I first introduced myself. Helena did find me in Palembang, but before that, I..." Hassan sighed. "I wasn't quite a fisherman."

He didn't elaborate, which raised even more questions. Fucking hell. Gilbert decided not to ask.

"Jesus," He shut his eyes. A bark of laughter escaped his mouth, and he could only bare his teeth in an awful grin. "You guys haven't proved you're not a bunch of crazy conspiracy theorists yet, you know."

"I know," Came the reply. "Sometimes I think we are, too."

* * *

 **Tuesday.**

"We're so screwed," Brendan sniffed. "They've found Prussia."

The entire group finally managed to congregate back in the meeting room; angst be damned. Gilbert ended up knocking for five minutes straight, while Hassan started pacing about outside, muttering to himself. After Gilbert began (quietly, of course, they were getting looks from the librarians) threatening to kick it in, the door finally creaked open, and Brendan and Helena didn't bother chasing them out this time. It seemed like he'd settled on avoiding Hassan, who continued being terribly quiet in the far corner, clutching a beanbag.

The boy was still staring at his laptop, face paler than pale. Helena was staring at her map. As soon as Brendan spoke, she whipped around so fast he was sure her neck broke.

"Would you stop being so vague," Gilbert snapped. "You're just making everything sound ominous now. All of you."

Helena ignored him, eyes zoning right onto Brendan. " _Prussia_? How? How do you know?"

Even Hassan was leaning in now, mouth agape.

"Khemet. Two seconds ago," He replied, rather tremulously. He looked close to tears again.

"And what do you mean by _found_?" She pressed. "Have they made contact with him?"

"Not yet. But they know where he is."

And to Gilbert's surprise, Helena crumpled, hand on her face, the other braced too hard on the edge of the table. "Oh, _fuck_."

It was the first time he'd heard Helena curse. The questions itching at the edge of his tongue quelled themselves, and he gave in to the resulting silence. He saw Hassan prepare himself, mouth poised to speak, as if he knew what was going to come next.

Helena plucked her hand from her face. "Srivijaya."

There was a pause, and Hassan's head tilted strangely, mouth drawing into a thin line. "Yes?"

" _Explain._ "

He shook his head, eyes still trained on her. "There is nothing to explain. I know nothing."

"Stop lying and answer me," Helena growled. "What. Do. You. _Know_."

"I am no longer a part of their little group. Why would you _think_ I'd know?" Hassan spat, bitterness thrumming beneath his words.

Gilbert could almost feel Helena's hackles raise. She took one step towards Hassan. And another. The man shot up, staring at her straight in the eyes for one, ten, twenty, seconds.

Jesus _Christ_.

Helena sighed, and the iciness seemed to wash out of her in a single breath. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

Hassan, however, didn't reply. He still appeared tense, trembling a little, eyes too wide.

" _Na, kaimarthakya_?" He whispered, voice low. He blinked and shifted suddenly, posture relaxing ever so slightly. "Right."

The chill swept out of the room. Hassan was now shifting on the balls of his feet, glancing about like a slightly twitchy bird. Brendan was staring at the two, jaw hanging. His fingers were propped in midair, hovering over the keyboard hesitantly.

Helena's hand raised itself to her face again. "Brendan? Tell Khemet that she needs to get out of there as soon as she can."

Brendan had been staring at the two for quite a while, or so Gilbert noted. He shook himself out of his stupor and blinked. "Will do."

He'd had enough.

"Can someone tell me _what the hell is happening_?" Gilbert demanded.

Everyone looked over at once. It was Brendan who finally opened his mouth. "To put it really simply? The bad guys struck gold." His voice was stronger now, not quite weakened with the prospect of tears.

"Bad guys," Gilbert sighed. "There are _bad guys_ now. Wow."

"They aren't bad guys, per se," Helena corrected. "But I'll explain this on the way there. We don't have the time. Our priority now is getting to Harrisburg as soon as we can."

"They're definitely bad guys, I don't know what you're saying," Brendan mumbled. "They tried to _kill_ you!"

Gilbert swore he saw Hassan flinching at that.

"Alright," Helena cut in, eyeing Gilbert. "That's enough. We'll continue this tomorrow. We should start packing now."

"Fine," Brendan muttered, curtly. He slammed the laptop shut.

"Aw, come on! It was just getting interesting!" Gilbert protested.

He was promptly glared at by both Brendan and Helena.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

 _Baiklah,_ _nak —_ Okay, kid (Bahasa Indonesia)

 _Na, kaimarthakya_? — No, why? (Sanskrit)

Drama, exposition (ten million lines of dialogue) and Gilbert being very confused. He's practically given up because all of them are insane. Except for Herr Adler over there, but there is, of course, his French furniture, which definitely proves he's also insane. And, yeah, Hassan is the empire of Srivijaya. Whom practically no one knows about. I'll get some historical notes done when more is revealed.

And oooh! Plot! Suspicious world meetings and bad guys whom Helena denies are bad guys, oh my! I just hope I'm doing characterisation right, because I'm fairly sure I'm messing up all of these people. Please do inform me if I am. I need the constructive criticism.

Edit: Special thanks to Ichigo Kitsune-chan for correcting my Indonesian!


	6. Chapter 6: Traum

**Chapter 6: Traum / _Dream_**

 **Wednesday**

Brendan came earlier than Gilbert did.

His left eye twitched, and he swung his watch up close to his face. 8:30 a.m. There wasn't a hint of Hassan and Helena anywhere. From what little of the boy he'd heard, he was sure he was German, efficiency and all. Well, at least, Dietrich was. Both had no distinct accents. Maybe they had a German family or ancestry, except they happened to be born in America.

He could relate. Sort of. Gilbert's parents had hailed from Germany, but they moved to America years before he was born. His mother often griped about making that decision. She had always wanted to settle down and raise her child in Koblenz, but _no_ , Gilbert's father had to be a big _Dummkopf_ and start his home renovation business in America, now look what happened to her, American food was ruining her skin, yadda, yadda.

In fact, now that he thought of it, there were plenty of things about his birth and childhood that went strangely. His parents insisted he had albinism, but his doctors said he was perfectly normal, chalking his grey hair down to a lack of Vitamin B12. But they definitely couldn't explain how his eyes drained themselves of their colour when he was seven. He'd always just declared he had albinism just to make things easier.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Brendan muttered, all of a sudden.

Brendan himself was crouching before his brother's memorial, gaze completely unreadable. The small collection of flowers was starting to look a little faded, petals scattering onto the pavement and the road beyond. Gilbert deliberated spouting some form of condolences at him, but they stuck themselves in his throat, refusing to release themselves. They were just too... superficial. Fake. The sort of shit you really don't want to hear when your brother just died.

"Nah, just zoning out," He said instead. He was, anyway.

Brendan nodded his acknowledgement, and they slipped back into silence. Gilbert sighed, rolling his little luggage bag along with him until he was standing next to the boy.

"I hope I packed enough things," Gilbert started conversationally. His eyes flicked to glance over at Brendan, who was still staring blankly at the flowers. "Helena didn't give much info out. I don't even know how many days this is going to take. Pretty sketchy, huh?"

Complete silence. Damn. It was time for attempt two at small talk. "Where's your bag?"

This time, Brendan stirred. He turned his head slowly, eyes glazed over. It was apparent, by now, that he had been crying. Gilbert bit his lip. This was looking pretty bad.

"...It's in the car," Brendan muttered, at long last. He shoved his hand into the pocket of his hoodie, producing a set of keys. They jangled in his fingers.

Gilbert frowned, glancing out over the smattering of vehicles all over the parking lot. "Your car?"

"Helena's. You could go put your things inside first. It's what we do." Brendan tossed the keys over, and Gilbert caught them smoothly. He nodded towards the grey Honda Civic sitting a couple of feet away. "She will come half-an-hour late with all her cats, so one of us usually receives the keys first."

Gilbert nodded along. Her car looked depressingly battered. "You guys live together or something?"

"No," He stated. Was it just Gilbert, or was the boy not meeting his eyes? "Helena and Hassan are roommates. I live with my..." His face scrunched up."...Family."

"Right."

He seemed to notice Gilbert's suspicious squint, and his face unscrewed itself. "They are regular people. Not nations of any kind. Except for... my, er, my brother—"

"Sounds good to me," Gilbert quickly cut in, before Brendan could talk himself into tears. He swung the keys about his finger, pulling his luggage slowly away. The wheels rumbled against the asphalt. "I think I'm gonna get some sleep in the car. Come on. Your ass is gonna bake out here."

Brendan stared at the flower bunches, lips pursing. Then he stretched an arm out, tugging at a stalk of wilting cornflower. With a tilt of his head, and another unreadable expression, he stuffed it into his pocket. The boy seemed to unfurl, rising onto booted feet, before sweeping in an arc to face Gilbert. It was almost military, the way he did that.

"Fine," He said. "...But I have dibs on shotgun."

* * *

 **Traum**

He was in a room.

It was massive — several times the size of his whole apartment. A chandelier drooped from the arching ceiling, flickering candlelight casting pale shadows on the far walls. For such a huge room, it was surprisingly bare. A four-poster bed stood at the centre of the room, no, _chamber_ , and a thin cloth veiled the mattress. It seemed to radiate an energy of sorts. Red-gold patterns spiralled from beneath the bed, dizzying and strange, dancing at the edge of a half-remembered memory. The other furniture in the room seemed haphazard and blockish, details missing. They were mere blurs of colour, too abstract, too ethereal.

Gilbert realised, at that moment, that he couldn't focus on anything other than the bed. Everything about the room seemed faded, a backdrop to the central setpiece — the whispering, gauzy cloth, the almost monolithic bedposts. All light in the room bent towards it. He couldn't move. He was trapped in space, suspended at a fixed point, and he could only stare at the damned bed.

The doors suddenly swung open (funny how he hadn't noticed them, it was only the bed, the bed, the _bed_ ). Two people strode in, urgent and brisk. They were mere smears too, and Gilbert couldn't make anything about their faces or features stick in his mind. Then one stopped inches from the bed. The room seemed to inhale along with him.

"There we are."

And when the words tumbled from his mouth, they echoed over and over until it was as if the walls had spoken.

All at once, like a great rush of air, the image of the person sharpened, blurry details focussing. He was clear, suddenly, as clear as the bed. Gilbert could see the feathery white hair on his head, the starched boots, eyes that seemed to gleam an impossible colour.

He was staring at _himself_.

Sure, the other man's hair was longer, and he looked slightly more well-built (there was no way he was going to be jealous of his doppelgänger), and he was sure that man had a German accent, but that had _got_ to be him. The complete lack of humour in those eyes, however, was utterly foreign. The lookalike turned in a precise arc to face the other, jaw set in a hard line. The name " _Bayern_ " popped very suddenly into Gilbert's head, and it branded itself into the other man. Bayern's face remained frustratingly smeared. He couldn't even identify the colour of his hair.

"You're saying that you've kept him here the entire time?" Bayern seethed. A thick accent coated his words.

"Ja. Of course," Doppelgänger's foot tapped impatiently against the tiles on the floor. "What, do you expect me to tell the whole world that he is still alive? You wish for France to come over and _murder_ him? For Gott's sake—"

Bayern's hand closed around Doppelgänger's collar, too fast for Gilbert's eyes to keep up. He rocked on the balls of his feet, momentum sending them teetering over the edge of the bed. Doppelgänger ground his foot into the floor behind, and they stabilised. A fleeting wince passed over his face. One second. Two, and it hardened into a very familiar scowl. Bayern's face was too blurry to read.

"You could've at least told _us_!" He growled, pulling the lookalike closer to him. "He was our brother, not yours!"

"Let. _Go_!" Doppelgänger shoved him away, and Bayern stumbled back. "I've told some members of the _Norddeutscher Bund_ because they can keep their mouths shut. You can't," He jabbed his finger into the other man's chest. "You and Württemberg and Baden, all kissing specs' ass. The last thing we need is for you to blurt this out to him. Or worse," He sneered. "Fucking _France_."

"So why tell me now, huh?" Bayern rasped. "If you don't trust us at all then— then _why_?"

"Because!" Doppelgänger shut his eyes, looking even more pained now. "Because he needs you to join us. He's dying. He needs a country. _Nein_. He needs an _empire_."

"You already have the North, _Saupreiß_ —"

"We need the south too. I don't care if you lot prefer _Österreich_ over me. You need to unite with us, or he's not going to _make it_!"

His voice had risen to a roar, and the declaration echoed off the walls. Bayern didn't answer. He only balled his fists and pushed past Doppelgänger, marching right up to the bedside. The lookalike's eyes widened. "Don't—"

The veil was pushed aside. There was a boy lying within, still and ashen-faced. And Gilbert's breath caught. He knew the boy. He did.

There was a silence as Bayern tenderly placed his ear on the boy's chest. His breaths rang out, louder and louder as panic seemed to seep into his frame, as his body started to quake, and—

The room spun, and everything vanished.

* * *

 **Traum**

He was in another room. No, a _ballroom_.

Gilbert blinked. There was still a chandelier, but it was exceedingly extravagant this time. Every detail of the ballroom seemed to be rendered in crisp colour, every candle a blazing spotlight. Waves of people spun past each other, bobbing in a slow waltz. Music wafted from a string quartet nearby, and the dresses on the women swayed to the flowing melody.

He was now fixed at a section of the mezzanine, overlooking the crowds beneath. And — to his frustration — he was _still_ formless.

"Quite the view, isn't it?"

There was a presence beside him. Gilbert, unfortunately, couldn't turn or reply. He could only continue staring at the crowd below. They seemed to be in extremely old-fashioned clothing, too stiff and elaborate for his tastes, like a bunch of extras for a period drama.

"Oh forgive me. You can't see me, now can you?" The voice breathed. "Perhaps I can help you with that."

It was as if he were being stabbed with a shard of ice. Something seemed to ram into his heart and force his non-existent body to turn, and he did. He ended up face to face with _someone_. Their features were smeared like Bayern's were, colours blurred into a horrifying goop.

"What are you doing in my head, intruder?" The person growled. "Have you come to taunt me?"

The blurs cleared, running like water down his face until his features came into focus. He was a man with a pair of striking green eyes, and even more striking _eyebrows_. No name floated to his head this time. There was only a strange, aching flare of recognition.

"You aren't a very good magic user at all, if you think you can peer into memories without covering your tracks," He snorted. "Now tell me, why are you in my bloody head?"

The icy grip around his heart tightened, and he had no mouth to even scream with, let alone reply. The man seemed to realise this, cocking his head ever so slightly.

"You don't even how to speak in a dream. How pathetic," The man passed his hand over where Gilbert's mouth should have been, and he felt his body solidify. A gasp escaped his mouth, and he shuddered as the feeling passed right through his body. He planted his legs on the floor, taking a step back from the other man. He was still completely invisible, though he did have his body now, at least.

"Holy fuck," He whispered. "How'd you— What's going on?"

The man's face twisted into a sneer. "Rid yourself of your shrouding spell. I can barely hear your voice."

"And I barely know what the hell you're talking about," Gilbert spat. He dusted his invisible shirt. The air around him wasn't distorted or anything, like in the movies. He was practically a straight-up ghost.

One massive eyebrow on that man's face lifted in a dignified arch. He adjusted the collar on his fancy suit, frustration evident in the line of his body.

"Don't lie to me," Mr Eyebrows snapped. "You know what you lot have done with Spain."

Gilbert groaned. "Spain? The country? The land itself or—" He couldn't believe he was going to say this. He was turning into a conspiracy nut. "...The fricking person?"

Mr Eyebrows only narrowed his eyes, and they shifted rapidly, as if searching for where Gilbert's own eyes might be. "You utter twat. Are you playing dumb or are you simply _stupid_?"

The music wafted on. It was almost surreal. This place shouldn't even exist, and Gilbert couldn't even think why. It had the same strange qualities as the room before. The bed.

"I don't know what you're talking about, simple as that," He repeated. When he tried to touch Mr Eyebrows, his hand went through him. "You've got the wrong guy."

The other man exhaled, lips curling in absolute disdain, and Gilbert fought the urge to punch him. He passed his gaze over Gilbert as if he could actually see him, searching for something he wasn't able to find.

"It would appear that I have," Mr Eyebrows muttered, expression unreadable. "You're not a magic user. At all."

"I'm not. I don't know what any of this shit is," Gilbert seethed. "This has been the most confusing week of my life, and you're _not_ helping."

The other man exhaled. All of a sudden, a cup of tea floated into existence. Mr Eyebrows snatched at it, sipping its contents like some old stereotypical British gentleman. He even had that accent to boot.

"None of this explains why you're in my head, git," The man hissed between sips. "Or why you even know that nations can be people."

"Why the fuck would I even lie about not knowing?" Gilbert rolled his invisible eyes. "Not gonna offer me some tea?"

Mr Eyebrows didn't even deign him with a response. He just kept sipping his floating cup. Gilbert scowled, moving to drape a hand over the railing.

"Your accent is American," The man observed, a frustrated edge leaking into his voice. "You have a shroud on you. I can't even discern the features of your voice. You claim not to know magic — and I trust that claim, mind you — and yet you are surrounded by it."

"I thought we've already cleared that up, you—"

"And you don't know anything about what happened to Spain?" He pressed, both eyebrows raising this time.

"No!" Gilbert groaned. Maybe this guy was another conspiracy nut or something. He looked around. What even was this place? How did he get here? "But _apparently_ personifications exist! I know that! And you know what? They say that I'm fricking one of them!"

Mr Eyebrows spluttered, tea slopping out of the cup. He coughed several times, and Gilbert took a while to realise he was _laughing_. It went on for a bit, and he could feel his blood boil. Whether or not the conspiracy was real, there was suddenly the great urge to defend it.

Or not. Was this the bad guy Helena was talking about? One could never be too suspicious. Maybe he was baiting him.

"What rubbish," The man said, collecting himself. "You are undeniably human. Big bloody bunch of nutcases, you lot are." He stopped for a bit, snorting derisively. "And which nation are you supposed to be? America? You'd certainly fit the role."

Gilbert shut his eyes, a spike of annoyance shooting through him. "Forget it. You're not gonna believe me, anyway."

"You're right. I won't. That won't stop me from having a little fun at your expense," He took a long sip. "You're not the only one having an awful week."

"And you're just trying to get information from me, aren't you?" Gilbert tried his best to glare, before realising that no one could see him. "Oh, I know what you're doing. Act all casual so I'll spill everything. That's bad guy stuff."

"So what if I am?" The man shot back. "You're being terribly suspicious. And you just admitted that you _are_ hiding something."

"Fine, Eyebrows," He snapped. Fuck Helena and her bad guys, he was going to talk. This man had to be taken down a few pegs. "Wanna know who I am?"

"Do tell." The man's voice was practically dripping with his distaste. _Fuck_ him. Gilbert's skin was crawling.

"Does the name 'Gilbert Beilschmidt' mean anything to you?"

And the man spluttered, tea practically everywhere by now. The scattered droplets vanished upon leaving the cup, sparkling and fizzing out like fireworks. His head raised, jerky and slow, eyes too wide.

Huh. Gilbert hadn't expected it to work. He knew his luck, and it was practically garbage. The man actually recognising his name sure was a step in the right direction. He hoped. There was the chance that he was a bad guy, though, and that everything would come crashing down on—

A sound, like a piercing gunshot, rang out, and he jumped. Cracks spread across the ceiling. Mr Eyebrows doubled over, and he seemed to... wait a minute, was he _melting_? No, Gilbert stepped back. Not him, his clothes. His fancy 19th-century coat thing seemed to fade into running watercolour, changing and twisting into a pale olive.

"What—" The spray of falling dust scattered the ground. He jerked back, grimacing, hand around the railings. "What's happening?"

The other man didn't respond. His eyes were shut now. The swirling green seemed to have solidified into a uniform jacket, military style.

Plaster showered from the ceiling, and the crowds below kept dancing, even as a massive chunk dislodged and plunged into the masses. Even as blood stained the ground where the people lay. There were no screams or even panic. Just the musicians, cellos and violins playing in an unending loop, the screeching of the strings growing louder and louder as the wind rose.

And his eyes flung open. Glowing green, and he _knew_ the man was pissed.

"You," The man said, disgust oozing from his words. "Are not Gilbert Beilschmidt."

There was an explosion, and the ground rocked from beneath him. Gilbert's feet scrambled to find purchase, slipping against the cracking floor. He clung to the railings tighter. His entire body was braced against it, and for some strange reason, he was laughing now.

He would never be able to explain this! It was all so messed up, and the building was collapsing, and he wasn't Gilbert Beilschmidt. Damn it all.

"You sure about that?" He shrieked, over the sound of breaking stone. He was grinning now, oh yes he was. He was so getting killed by this guy, but it would be worth it. "The one thing death couldn't take from me. My _verdammt_ name, and you dare tell me I'm not _Gilbert-FUCKING-Beilschmidt_?"

Mr Eyebrows still stood on the one patch of ground that wasn't falling apart, looking as if he'd like to wring Gilbert's (invisible! Ha!) neck. "I do." His scowl deepened. "You lot better not have Spain with you. You can't hide, and you can't possibly hope to understand what we are. You best quit while you're at it. We will _not_ tolerate the impersonation of those who have left us."

The winds picked up, and the destruction seemed to accelerate. It was all coming apart, spraying wood and crumbling stone, and this _had_ to be a dream. He really, really wanted it to be now.

Gilbert's grin forced itself into a rictus. "Guess we'll see you in Harrisburg."

The railing groaned against his weight, parts of it ripping off and flying into the hurricane of destruction. In less than ten seconds, Gilbert himself will be flung away with the rest of the railing, dragged kicking and screaming into the nothing beyond.

The man's head tilted, and his mouth split into an awful sneer. "I'd love to see you _try_."

And the railing gave. He couldn't even yell a comeback or scream like a girl, or hurl a piece of falling rock at his massive eyebrows. There was only a weightlessness, and he was gone.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

 _Saupreiß —_ Pig-Prussian (Bavarian insult)

 _Norddeutscher Bund —_ North German Confederation

Hah! I'm not dead! Just ridden with a bunch of exams and schoolwork, oh no. Still, sorry for the ultra late update.

Dreams! Gilbert's first vision! I wonder what's happening? And ooh boy, Arthur is not having any of this dead nations bull, and it really didn't help that Gilbert was invisible the whole time. Things are going to get so much worse for our bunch of reincarnations. Next chapter is gonna be all of them on the world's worst road trip. Stay tuned.

And what happened to Spain, I wonder? Hmm...


	7. Chapter 7: Weard

**Chapter 7: _Weard_ / Ward**

 **Wednesday**

Two days after France had reportedly seen Gaul, their servers went offline, and then afterwards, their back up servers. Three hours after that, no one could send emails out or even text.

That left the phone lines.

The nations had been thrown into chaos, call upon call passing through the wires to America, to him, to Germany. France had insisted on sending telegrams, and England didn't have the slightest clue as to why (none of them held anything important, regardless). No one slept for days, Estonia especially. America called to say the poor Baltic had been feverishly working at rebooting their servers and every other piece of damned equipment that had gone haywire in the past 48 hours. Some even expressed concern that their phone lines might fail them as well.

But things went smoothly, for the most part. Everyone remained calm enough and tried to salvage lost documents. Most were careful enough to keep physical versions of the more necessary papers. England had been told some groups of nations were meeting up face to face to handle conferences which would otherwise have taken place online. Either way, they would discuss this and other causes of concern during their very hastily planned world meeting, to be hosted at America's. There was the hope that the hackers would show up, of course. That had been the original plan.

It took one call from Romano to completely ruin things.

About a dozen nations had already trickled into Harrisburg some two days before the meeting. There was the idea—America's— to have dinner at the nearest McDonalds. All the nations reluctantly turned up. And then it happened. The call. To Germany, surprisingly.

Romano's voice screeched from the receiver, sobbing like a complete maniac.

It was Spain, he wept. Spain was _gone._

They'd been in Naples, and Spain had turned the fucking corner, and there was a fight, and now the stupid jerk bastard was missing, and Romano couldn't find him and _merda, how could this fucking happen_ —

Their phone lines went down right after.

Needless to say, it was a bloody _nightmare_. A crisis. Diplomatically and emotionally. There were no means of communication, and the nations who weren't already in Harrisburg couldn't be reached at all. They had tried to downplay this to their bosses (they could handle this, damn it all, this was not a problem humans should meddle in, thank you kindly), but everyone ended up barred from travelling by the UN, regardless. This didn't stop the other countries from looking for Spain. And there was panic, of course. Everywhere.

When even public phones failed them, and them _specifically_ , he'd decided there was magic involved. He sent along a battalion of his best fairies to try and diagnose the problem.

The Harrisburg nations had given up, and were all still occupying the McDonald's as they tried to sort this out. It was relatively empty during the night they had stayed. All the fights that had broken out probably chased away most potential customers. When they almost got kicked out, America had managed to convince the staff that, yes, it was absolutely necessary that this bunch of people remained where they were.

It was quite amusing, seeing him try to prove that they were foreign dignitaries caught in an international crisis. He'd brought out some papers, argued animatedly for a couple of minutes, paused to buy everyone fast food, before bringing out his ultimate weapon— declaring he was the hero. In the end, the collection of confused minimum wage workers decided to let them stay on account of a certain Alfred F. Jones being famous across any and all branches of McDonald's.

"There is no point, is there?"

England blinked, snapping back to attention. It was France, head propped up by both hands, world's lousiest mop of hair in a messy ponytail. He looked like a disaster. Or rather, even more of a disaster than he usually did.

"No point to what?" England sighed, several seconds too late. He was terribly out of it.

"Having a world meeting," France croaked, jabbing daintily at a cheese-covered fry (Or so those things were called in this glorious land of _freedom_ ) with his fork. "There are too few of us here, and no more will be coming."

There was a long counter, meant to seat eight people, and the nations had all planted themselves there. China had dozed off in the chair beside them, face smooshed to the tabletop. Austria and Hungary seemed to be whispering to each other in the far corner, looking uncharacteristically tense. America was pacing outside, yelling into his phone speaker and making all sorts of exaggerated gestures. Germany, Japan and Italy had gone off a day ago to take a flight to Naples before the ban took effect. The Benelux three disappeared with them to search for Spain.

The rest of the nations were stuck in their own countries, radio silence from everywhere. Except for the one call that had successfully made it to America some minutes ago.

Morale was at an all-time low, being reduced to staking out at a McDonald's, of all places. There was no Spain with his oblivious smiles and endless sunshine, and though England never thought he would miss any of that, he did. Stupid git kept smiling even after he had set him on fire along with the majority of his ships. God knew where he was now, or if he was still smiling away in some dank, dark... dungeon? Oh, what the hell.

It hadn't quite sunken in yet. And there was no way he was going to panic with the others unless something truly awful happened.

He was forgetting something, he knew.

England rubbed his head, irked, but too drained to start any arguments. "We still have to do it. This has to be solved, somehow."

"We don't even know if Spain is the only one..." France went even paler. "...Gone."

England craned his neck, frowning at America outside. Who was he even talking to? "He isn't gone, Frog. He can't die. You know this."

"Oui. But he can be tortured. Made to _suffer_ —" France rammed the fork down so violently that the tips snapped. They stuck jaggedly out of the fry like teeth. France's eye twitched, and the broken fork clattered to the table. " _Mon Dieu!_ What am I doing?"

"Making things worse," England sighed, eyeing the mess on the table. "Bloody hell, drama queen. That was a perfectly good fry you just ruined."

"Oh, shut up, _rosbif_. This isn't the time for you to suddenly gain a sense of humour."

There they went. Oh well, it this was the bit of normalcy he got to hold on to, so be it.

"And this isn't the time for you to get all bloody depressed. For the love of fuck, it should be _me_ moping about. I was the one who barely got any sleep last night!"

"And I was the one who lost—" The blasted frog groaned, running a hand through his hair. He seemed to deflate. "Who... ah... has to suffer through this terrible excuse of a meal."

England didn't miss whatever that had been, and it was serving as fuel for his already roiling temper. France was rubbish at hiding his emotions

"What are you talking about?" He pointed at the empty wrappers scattered on the table. Gauging France's emotions was key here. Any further fault in his pointless façade (hell, that was a French word—) would be used as ammunition. No mercy. "We all had to eat this! It's perfectly fine, idiot."

" _Perfectly fine?_ " France threw his hands into the air with a flourish, clasping his head dramatically, the limpness gone from his frame. "That is only due to the of the state of your _awful tastebuds_ , Angl—"

A chair scraped across the tiling, before toppling to the floor. The resounding crash seemed to echo through the place. Both France and England turned to stare.

It was Hungary.

She stood, tall and vicious and beautiful, a raging war goddess, and she was glaring at _Austria_.

England truly believed the world was going to end. This was something that simply never happened. They were the perfect couple — barring their divorce, which hadn't even been their fault. Hungary never got this angry at Austria, or so everyone thought.

" _Sacre Bleu!_ " France yelped a little redundantly, nearly slipping off his chair in his haste to back away. "What is happening here!"

China jerked awake, blinking blearily, fry stuck to his forehead. His mouth fell open, and the beginnings of a weary sigh seemed to be building on the crease of his eyebrows.

Hungary glanced over at the lot of them, glower intensifying at each wide-eyed nation. Austria himself remained impassive, staring straight ahead and very pointedly not meeting Hungary's eyes.

"...Ask _him_ ," She spat. There was a moment where she seemed to collect herself, taking a deep breath and smoothing her hair back. Then she stalked away, curving around the edge of the table and sweeping out the door. Through the glass of the storefront, England watched as she plopped herself down on the pavement outside, and America damn near tripped over her.

Everyone's attention turned to Austria, who looked as if he were about to have a stroke. Well, everyone except for China, at least. He had grabbed the fry France had stabbed and was blearily trying to pick the fork bits out.

"Well?" England prompted.

Austria remained silent for a while. He pulled his glasses off, wiping them listlessly. "For the record, I did not expect Elizaveta to react the way she did."

" _Zhēn shi de_. Of course not," China cut in. The weary sigh finally escaped from his mouth. England noted that the fry was still dangling from his forehead. China scooted over on his chair, and went for a brief pat of Austria's back. "Angering her is the last thing anyone would want to do, aru."

"Ah," France started, staring at Hungary on the streets outside. His face remained frustratingly blank, a mask England had never quite seen him wear before. "There was someone used to do that for a living."

It was almost concerning, how deflated France sounded. England really couldn't bring himself to care, he told himself. At long last, he would get his silence. No more incessant croaking from this man. But, alas, if he knew his oldest enemy well enough, there would be incessant _moping_ instead.

France's eyes turned glassy. Oh good God, was he going to _cry_?

He had to put a stop to this. It was ruining the already ruined mood, and it would be cringeworthy and needlessly dramatic. There was no other reason why he would want to stop France from bawling.

But before he could attempt to whack some sense into the frog, Austria shuddered, and a strange chuckle wracked his tired frame. "Sad to say, the word 'living' no longer applies to him."

He had been so occupied with bloody _France_ that the entire conversation had flown over his head. England scowled. He needed his sleep. But of course, there was only one man this conversation could be referring to. There was a nagging sense of deja vu, but he couldn't for the life of him place it.

"Gott," Austria continued, and more chuckles rang out. "Why does he keep appearing? He's long _gone._ There is no reason why he should come up again, but, oh—" He stopped again, wheezing, shaking his head like a madman. "Sowing discord between us posthumously, what a legacy he leaves!"

France finally snapped out of his trance. "... _Quoi?_ "

"She had a dream about him, and she claimed it was so real she _knew_ he was still out there," Austria sighed. His face shifted smoothly back into a blank smile. "And I—well— I don't know what I was thinking. I told her that Gilbert Beilschmidt was _dead_ , and that there would be no changing that."

And there was silence.

"Needless to say," He continued, more quietly this time. "We had quite a bit of discourse."

It always seemed taboo, saying the names of nations long gone. The living swept their passings under the carpet. Rome was _"missing"_ , of course, never dead. And the whole host of German nations had all gone off and "retired". Tip-toeing around these things was their speciality. If one chose to grieve, one would do so quietly. There would be a funeral, if someone cared enough to host one, and a headstone with no body rotting beneath. The truth was no one dared talk about the deceased, for they _feared_ the void beyond. None of them wanted to be reminded their immortality was fragile, at best. But there Austria went, voice reedy and distraught, uttering something he really shouldn't have.

Gilbert Beilschmidt.

 _Gilbert-FUCKING-Beilschmidt_.

England clutched his head, and he remembered all that had slipped his mind. He had a bloody dream too. How utterly idiotic could he be, forgetting something like that? Of course, it had only been a half-an-hour snooze, and he spent the time afterwards duking it out with Alfred over... what? It was something stupid, he knew. It wasn't worth forgetting the entirety of his dream over.

"The dream," He muttered, and Austria's forlorn gaze flicked over. "What was it about? Did she tell you?"

"Don't laugh." Austria pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, exhaling. "...Something about their childhood, and it ended in him trying to clear a _popcorn ceiling_ , of all things."

China looked like he'd swallowed a whole lemon. "Popcorn ceiling?"

"The one with the, ah, pokey bits, _non_?" France cut in, slightly less mechanical. His eyes were alight again. "Perhaps it's a metaphor. You know how the subconscious goes. Or—" A pause, for dramatic effect. A widening of the eyes. "—A _sign_."

The lemons seemed to have spread to Austria, for he was now making that exact face at France. England supposed he could relate.

"This is about Gaul, isn't it," He sighed, trying his darndest to keep the abrasion out of his voice. Dead people were still dead people. The tiptoeing still applies, archenemy or not. He was a gentleman.

A frustrated growl escaped France's throat, and for a moment, he looked ready to throttle England. Outward displays of aggression, yet another anomaly. "And you don't believe I saw her?" His spidery fingers drummed, just once, on the tabletop. "Do any of you?"

"Er," Austria began, pursing his lips. "It is as it is with Elizaveta. I don't doubt your word, specifically, but rather the concept—"

"I believe him!" China snapped. "Just because all of you are too stubborn with your modern beliefs and all that doesn't mean everybody is. _Yīngguó_ , you have your fairies, aru."

China, France, Hungary. They've all lost nations close to them. They'd all presumably seen proof of the dead returning, save for China. He and Austria were just one sighting, one mad dream away from joining their ranks, in believing wholeheartedly that what they were seeing was true.

He could almost feel his heart giving out. Acting fast. Shutting down their ideas, that was imperative.

"How many times do I have to say it. My fairies aren't mere superstition. That's _different,_ " He rubbed his temples. Come to think of it; it's been a long while since he'd last heard from them... "If what the Frog is saying is correct, it would mean— It would mean those who have left us aren't truly gone. We've all lived for so long, shouldn't we have noticed this?"

France shot him a look. "That is because it is only just beginning—"

"As your _elder_ —" China was on a roll now. "I've seen far more. And I say, this is more important than you will ever know. This is." He threw his arms up in the air. "I don't know what this is! Returning. Ressurection—"

"Are we bringing up baseless conclusions now? Why are you all like this? Now, at least Elizaveta has a reason—"

"Would you stop defending your ex-wife! It isn't reincarnation. They're just impersonating Gilbert and Gaul and look at you! Blinded by emotion! We have this senile old fart, and a frog, and—"

"You call me a senile old fart _one more time_ , aru—"

"W-What is this about impersonating Gilbert—"

" _Mon Dieu_! Can everyone stop interrupting each other—

"I'm not interrupting; _you're_ interrupting—"

Then China slammed a fist onto the table, rattling plastic and empty wrappers. The fry finally fell from his forehead. It had the intended effect for all of five seconds. "Can all of us _calm down_ , aru!"

"We _are_ calm," England seethed. But no, he wasn't. He was antsy. Nothing was going as per routine. There was the urge to start pacing.

Austria huffed, adjusting his glasses. "My, did you turn into Germa—I mean, Ludwig when no one was looking?"

To China's credit, the only part of that that registered was the twitch of his right eye. He seemed to sag a little, however, like the weight of his many years was finally catching up to him. "You know what I mean. We cannot argue childishly at times like this. I am going to say this again. This is far more important than we will ever know."

That, for once, managed to shut them up properly. Austria looked like he might sound a good rebuttal or two, but one glance at Hungary outside was all it took to quell any dissent. That much was plain enough on his face.

China heaved another tremendous old man sigh, before sitting.

Another silence stretched on.

Then Austria cleared his throat. "Er. Engl— _Arthur_ was saying something about impersonating Gilbert, wasn't he? What was that about?"

Oh. Fuck. He'd said that out loud? There was no way — he realised— no way he was going to be able to explain the magic involved in that without fuelling Francis' crazy ideas.

England didn't answer. He couldn't say a word. He wondered if that was what caused Spain to turn the corner and disappear. Catching sight of familiar eyes, perhaps. Something that compelled him to stray from South Italy. It was sickening.

There was a vision of Hungary running to a Gilbert who really _wasn't_ , Of the foolish, sappy frog turning the corner and vanishing—

"Did you?" Francis' gaze seemed to bore into him. "Arthur?"

"I did," He started, slowly. "But it was baseless. My theory, for the sake of countering all of yours. You don't want to start another argument, do you? The staff here might tell us to sod off once and for all."

He gestured at the lot of owlishly blinking workers; all crowded around the counter.

"...If you say so," Austria sighed. He looked relieved, which was fine by England. Probably still distracted by Hungary's sudden outburst.

Francis, however, did not respond, and England knew at once he wasn't buying it. Damn. Bloody fucking hell, he should have tried harder. People would miss Francis, if he disappeared. Not him, of course, but someone will. Canada, maybe. Yes. Canada. This was for Canada.

"Ah, Angleterre?" Francis batted his eyelashes (God, it was disgusting), smiling a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Can we go outside for a little while?"

Oh, good Lord. "No."

"I just want to talk to you, mon ami. As two _good_ friends would."

" _No_."

He could almost see France's composure break.

"You," France spat. "Will come outside, or so help me. You are hiding something. And this is going to bite all of us in our rears when it comes down to it, just you wait."

England paused. He should give in by now. It was important. They were coming to Harrisburg, after all. This was a safety concern for all of them, so it would be perfectly natural to— "Absolutely not."

"Your pride is going to be the end of us all!" France wailed.

"And your yelling will be the end of my ears, bloody hell!"

"Oh, _non._ Don't you dare change the subject, you—"

"HEY DUDES! GUESS WHO JUST CALLED?"

Bless America and his fantastic timing. He had never quite been so glad to see him plough through the glass doors, Hungary in tow, million-watt Hollywood smile in full display. France, however, had gone so red he might just spontaneously combust.

"Uh. Guys? What happened? You people look like someone just died or something." Alfred marched to the table, tossing his phone onto the tabletop and sliding into his seat like he owned the place. "Lemme guess. Was it Yao? Hey Yao, you still kickin'?"

"Aiyah, don't say that! It's bad luck! And yes, I am," He said rather hurriedly, glancing back and forth between Hungary and Austria.

Hungary's anger must have drained out of her during her time-out. She was now the one looking everywhere but Austria's eyes. She padded to her seat, hunching over the tabletop. Austria seemed to pale at that.

"Huh. Must've been ol' Artie then. Hey, you alive?"

When he didn't respond, Arthur could only watch in horror as Alfred's finger reached over to prod him.

"I am alive, you wanker! Just—" He smacked the finger away. "Can you please, for the love of God, _stop_ talking about death? No one died."

France cleared his throat. England averted his gaze.

"Got it. Just trying to lighten the mood." Alfred's chair screeched as he pulled himself closer to the table. "Anyway. Wanna guess who called?"

No one answered.

"...Alright, I'll bite," Said Elizaveta, a little tiredly. "Who called?"

"Lud himself!" Alfred declared. "He and Feli got to Naples in one piece. I mean, well, two pieces, because they're two people, but anyway. My point is, he managed to get the call through using a public phone, which probably means our phone line problem isn't as sucky as previously thought. His phone managed to connect to Sadik's too before me, which is pretty cool."

Yao sat up a little straighter. "Wait. How about Kiku, aru? You didn't say where he went. Is he okay?"

"Oh. Okay, uh, funny story—" Alfred winced. "He made a detour to Istanbul. Remember Sadik's phone? Yeah, it doesn't work now. Real convenient there. Now we can't reach any of them."

"WHAT?" China yelped. "I mean, why would Kiku even—?"

"Ah," France cut in, suddenly interested. His eyes were worryingly half-lidded. "Does this have anything to do with Heracles?"

"Yeah, actually," Alfred's face turned serious. "According to Ludwig, Heracles ran all the way into Turkey's borders _screaming his head off_. He was all bloody. He's been completely unconscious for hours now. No one knows how long he'd been running for."

England blinked. "What the _fuck_."

"You... You don't think people tried to kidnap him, do you?" Austria suggested tentatively.

"I thought he _hated_ Sadik," Hungary said, making a face.

"Man, I don't know. Ludwig didn't say much, because _Sadik_ didn't say much. Kiku didn't know where they were, so he got himself to Istanbul, I guess. Can't go wrong with Istanbul."

Except, England realised, there was the chance that Sadik and Heracles were in Ankara instead. He kept his mouth shut. China's eye was already twitching.

France frowned. "Did Ludwig tell you how the Italies are doing?"

"Oh boy," Alfred groaned. "He didn't need to. I could hear a bunch of crying from the background. Ludwig did say he was going to try and move them all to Berlin, just to be safe." Suddenly, Alfred shot up, grinning maniacally. "Oh! Wait! Almost forgot! Guess which Commie Fuck went to Naples too!"

"Ivan?" England sighed. "God, who else is with them?"

"Uh. Just him. The Benelux bunch went to Spain. Katyusha was supposed to come along, but her boss didn't want her in the same place as him. Because y'know..."

Alfred rolled his hand.

Austria cringed. "Crimea?"

"Crimea," Alfred confirmed. "But if it helps, the Baltics are coming to PA. Or at least, they're _trying_ to. Eduard noped into Finland. Raivis' boss is taking the ban way too seriously. Only Tolys is kinda successful because he's on the way here. According to Ivan's tracker." Alfred shrugged. "...Yeah, he's tracking the Baltics. Don't ask. Good news for Eliza, though! Your buddy Feliks is on that same flight."

Elizaveta seemed to perk up, ever so slightly. "Aw, they're travelling together?"

"Yep! So basically, that's your news for today, brought to you by the hero himself." He saluted them. "Now, who wants more food?"

The only response to that was a collective groan. Austria and Hungary were stewing in awkward silence. China was now the definition of a worried mother. And France. He had no clue what France was doing for he _refused_ to look at him.

England exhaled, slouching into his seat. This, it would seem, was only the beginning of the _worst_ World Meeting in recent history.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

 _Zhēn shi de (真是的）—_ A very flat "Goodness" or "...really." The equivalent of a weary sigh, but in the form of words.

 _Yīngguó (英国）—_ _England_

 _Quoi_ — "What?" (French)

Whoops, no road trip yet! I've decided that it would be better to bring forward England's POV, so have an annoyed, sleep-deprived Arthur!

So. I guess we know what happened to poor Spain now. Kidnapped. Vanished. Poof. But hmm... why Spain, I wonder? And did Greece almost get kidnapped too? And why is it that only Ludwig and Sadik can send calls out?

And it looks like Gil is posthumously causing ex-marriage problems between our favourite ex-couple, Arthur is being stubborn and paranoid, France is a disaster, China is tired, and America is... America. Oh, joy.

I'll be missing till November because my final exams are coming. See you guys!


	8. Chapter 8: Reise

**Chapter 8:** ** _Reise_ / Journey**

 **Wednesday**

Gilbert gasped, and then his eyes blinked open.

The first thing he noticed was the sound of a running engine, just thrumming beneath his head. Ja, _beneath_ his head. He was lying down. His legs were propped up over something soft. There was the sound of papers sliding over each other, and something else. Something crunchy.

"Fuck," He rasped, throat exceptionally dry. He cleared it violently, before blinking again. "...Is someone eating chips?"

The car shuddered over a bump on the road.

"Yes, I am," Came the reply, in an accent Gilbert vaguely recognised as Hassan's. He sounded quite miserable. "Please take your legs off my lap. I fear for my blood circulation."

So that's what his legs were on. He grunted his assent. Counting to three in his head, he proceeded to push himself upright, all while groaning like an arthritic old man. His legs finally touched the floor, and he slid the seatbelt over his body, letting it click in place. They were in Helena's car, of course, and Gilbert blinked at the scenery as it swept past them.

"Oh good, you're awake," Helena herself groaned from the driver's seat, eyes still glued to the road.

The landscape outside didn't tell much about where they were. Just miles and miles of empty fields, stretching to beyond the reach of his eyes.

"We're on the turnpike already?" He rubbed his eyes. "How long was I out?"

"Thirty minutes, at least." There was a flash of green in the rearview mirror — Helena's eyes flicking to her watch. "But we only left ten minutes ago."

Brendan did manage to nab himself Shotgun. From the little sliver of the boy Gilbert could see, he seemed to be poring over several sets of paper. A pencil scritched over the surface of one of them, followed by a frustrated grunt.

"Homework," Helena explained. "History essays."

"I could have said that myself," Brendan bit out. Gilbert heard the lead snap against the paper, followed by a forceful exhale. "...Damned pencils."

"Pro-tip," Gilbert snorted. "Don't do homework in a moving car."

"I don't have a choice. It's due Friday." Brendan scowled. He set the pencil down. "Ah. Well, technically, it isn't. My history teacher said I had an... _excuse_. But I still want to do it."

"Wait a minute," he grumbled. "Just noticed, it's a Wednesday. You've got school. Whatcha doing here?"

Brendan didn't respond for a whole while.

"...Like I said, I have an excuse."

Hassan mouthed something that looked suspiciously like _Dietrich._

"That's perfectly fine," Helena reassured. "I'm sure your teacher will be proud."

The car lapsed back into silence, save for the engine and Hassan's chips. Gilbert leaned into the window, staring at the road beneath them. He imagined cracks splaying across the asphalt, the ground giving way beneath them. They'd slip away into nothing, and that dumb fucking Eyebrows Guy would probably still be glaring.

He wrinkled his nose. "Hey, Helena."

Her head inclined, ever so slightly. "...Yes?"

Hassan popped another chip into his mouth. It was distracting him. They looked too good. Damn it.

"Does any one of your _bad guys_ happen to be a British man with massive eyebrows?"

Helena seemed to consider this for a while. "Absolutely not."

"Oh."

Gilbert slumped into the glass. So it _was_ just a crazy dream then. He had no idea why, but his heart seemed to sink even further. Maybe some part of him had truly believed this whole thing was real — That they weren't just going to end up in Harrisburg and realise that the meeting was just some sort of regular function.

Helena cleared her throat.

Gilbert looked up. She was staring at him from the rearview mirror. "What is it, woman."

"Why did you ask me that question? " Helena hummed. "There are known threats who happen to be British, however. And massive eyebrows are a trait of any nation who descended from Britannia. Living nations, that is."

That claim didn't seem very credible, but neither did anything else. Gilbert figured his common sense could afford to take more hits.

"I had a dream where I met this crazy British guy," Gilbert explained. He saw that he'd attracted Brendan's attention. Progress on his homework had stopped entirely, and he was craning his neck back to look now. "He thinks I did something with Spain— the _person_ , Spain— so I said I had no clue what he was going on about, because he was all cryptic and shit, you know? I told him about the whole dead nations thing, then he got pissed and said I was lying about my name."

"Spain?" Hassan repeated, eyebrows furrowing. "Oh, _no_."

"I don't know, ask him. He's going to be in Harrisburg, too, apparently." Gilbert shrugged, eyeing the bag of chips. Helena had gone silent, and he decided that this was his chance. "What flavour are those?"

Hassan blinked. "Barbeque."

He reached over to grab one, but Hassan snatched the bag away so fast Gilbert was almost impressed. The guy was looking at him like he were crazy.

"Hey." Gilbert shook his head in mock disapproval. "Sharing is caring, comrade."

The number of creases on Hassan's face seemed to multiply at that. Gilbert took the opportunity to make a second lunge at the chips.

Helena sighed. "For goodness' sakes, can we _please_ get back on topic. I think I know what might have happened to Spain—"

Hassan shook his head, still trying to dodge Gilbert's attempts at stealing his precious chips. "Wait, wait, I know, Ms Karpusi! But this is my last bag—"

"What if he's a living nation? The man Gilbert met, I mean," Brendan blurted out, very suddenly. He looked scared, almost.

Gilbert froze. So did Hassan. The chips were momentarily forgotten. Living nations. There it was again. Gilbert didn't know why the concept was so hard to wrap his head around, but something was just too... _surreal_ about it.

Helena heaved an even deeper sigh. "It's possible. How did he look like?"

Gilbert slid back into his own seat. "Uh. He was blond. He had green eyes. Massive eyebrows. That's all I know."

"And you're certain the accent is British? The Queen's English?"

"I am, yeah."

"Wait!" Hassan gasped. "I think that description probably matches the, the er— I will pull up the registry. But the laptop is in the boot. I mean, the trunk."

Helena nodded quickly. "I'll pull over."

By 'pull over', Helena meant screeching across several lanes, all while slamming wildly on the horn over and over again. The sudden swerve was enough to throw a shower of crumbs out of the chip bag, and Gilbert was pretty sure Brendan's whole pencil case had slipped off his seat at some point.

"Holy _crap_ , woman!" Gilbert shrieked.

There was no response, only deranged screaming in surround sound.

A cacophony of honks trailed them all the way to the side of the road. And _finally_ , Helena braked.

There was a silence.

Brendan slowly stretched his hand out, shoving his finger at the tiny red triangle on the dashboard. The hazard lights flashed on.

"Ah..." Helena began. "Thank you, Brendan, but I don't think the hazard lights should be on."

"They do," Brendan groaned.

"Ya," Hassan agreed, sweeping the crumbs off the seat.

"They should be on all the damn time with you at the wheel," Gilbert griped, aiding Hassan in his noble cause. His heart was still going way too fast.

Helena only sighed. "Everyone _out_."

* * *

 **Wednesday**

They had to remove every single piece of luggage from the trunk in search of the stupid laptop.

Gilbert, being the fittest and most awesome, ended up having to drag the majority of them out. Hassan and Helena tasked themselves with squatting on the asphalt, unzipping the bags and digging through piles of clothes. The laptop turned out to be buried deep under a stack of old history books.

They marched off the road and onto the long stretch of overgrown grass beside it. A thicket of dead trees lined the area, spindly branches stretching towards the clouds above. Beyond that was a vast sea of farmland, several clumps of greyish houses dotting the fields.

"It's going to rain," Brendan noticed. He had already sat himself down onto the grass, sheets of crumpled foolscap paper in hand. The rumble of distant thunder confirmed his guess, the clouds above starting to resemble great swathes of old gauzy veils. What a specific comparison. Gilbert shook his head.

"We'll go back in when it does," Helena replied, moving to lower herself down next to Brendan. "We'll bother about the bags later."

They were all still strewn about the road and grass, clothes and books all over, and Gilbert suspected that he was going to have to be the one doing most of the stuffing back into the trunk as soon as the first raindrop hit the ground. "—Think I'll start packing first, you bunch of _lazy shits_."

So Gilbert stumbled back down to where the bags were, beginning to lift clothes from the dusty strip of road around the car.

Little did they know, he had a second objective in offering to pack the things. Damn, he was impressed by how sneaky he was being.

His spot was the perfect vantage point for peering into the laptop screen from behind Hassan.

As it turned out, the registry they were referring to was just a document on some sort of word processor. He scrunched his nose up and squinted. Hassan was scrolling pretty quickly, but the headers were in a font large enough for him to read.

There was a section labelled 'Holy Roman Empire', followed by a multitude of differently-sized images — Old paintings, maps, ink manuscripts. Then came the vast walls of text. At one point, **'BRANDENBURG/ PRUSSIA: ARE THEY THE SAME PERSON?'** (font size at least ten times that of anything else on the page) scrolled by.

The more he looked, the more Gilbert was really starting to question the possible legitimacy of this society. _Again._ He doubted this was about to stop anytime soon.

More and more massive font started to fill the pages, underlined and italicised and bolded and run through WordArt, garish colours making every word pop.

The tackiness proceeded to reach its peak with the next section, where every damned sentence occupied one entire page.

* * *

 **ROMAN EMPIRE DID NOT REINCARNATE?! WAS HE BYZANTINE EMPIRE W/ HELENA?!** _ **CLICK** _**FOR MORE INFO.**

 **-G.**

 _No... I don't think so? And I did think you were supposed to be banned from editing the document. Please stop adding all of these. We have sections for discussion._

 _-B/ AG._

 **NOPE. THE GERMAN EMPIRE REALLY PUTS THE MANY IN GERMANY, AM I RIGHT OR AM I RIGHT?** _ **CLICK**_ **FOR MORE INFO.**

 **-G.**

 **BREAKING NEWS: REPRESENTATION OF GAUL ACTUALLY PRE-ROMAN + ROMAN. WHAT HAPPENED AFTER 486 AD!?** _ **CLICK**_ **FOLDER FOR MORE INFO.**

 **-G.**

 _Please, I beg of you. Stop._

 _-B/ AG._

 **WILL I?**

 **...BY THE WAY, FOLDER INCLUDES PICTURE OF ***MY SUSPECTED SON.*****

 **CREDITS TO LISA BLANCHET. AND THE SANCTUARY OF NATIONS, BUT THEY DON'T DESERVE THE CREDITS.**

 **-G.**

 _Gaul, please stop with the all caps. We understand you are very excited, but it is distracting._

 _-B/ AG._

 **I HAVE A NAME, YOU KNOW. WE ALL CALL YOU HELENA PLEASE JUST RETURN THE FAVOUR. THE CAPS LOCK IS FOR EMPHASIS, BECAUSE I CARE ABOUT THIS COMMUNITY.**

 **-G.**

 **I DON'T KNOW HOW TO TURN IT OFF, ALSO.**

 **-G.**

 **ANYWAY, TO ANYONE THAT ISN'T HELENA, WE ARE MISSING HALF THE HEPTARCHY.** _ **CLICK** _**FOR MORE INFO!**

 **-G.**

* * *

"That's Lotte."

Gilbert blinked, head turning. The screen and its awful lettering left yellow spots in his vision. He came face to face with Helena, who was now squinting at the screen from next to Gilbert. When the hell did she get here?

He glanced back at the screen. "You mean the all-caps person?"

Helena nodded, reaching down to pick up several shirts. "She's a Dutch lady who joined us... four? No, five years ago. She used to be Gaul."

"Gaul? Like Asterix and shit?" Gilbert snorted. He crammed a stack of clothing back into the bag. "I like her style."

"Yes. Er... She's known for contributing quite a lot of information to our registry. It's very hard to judge when a nation — or rather the, ah, the _person_ representing it — begins or ends. We tend to have a lot of debates. She's at the centre of plenty."

Gilbert watched as Hassan moved the cursor to the word 'click', and the link led itself to _another_ document, clearly titled 'The Heptarchy'. They seemed to be getting somewhere, at least.

"So. About the living nations. I'm guessing there's... uh. One for every country."

He glanced at Helena. She offered him a tentative nod.

"—And they're immortal." Gilbert continued, trying his hardest to keep the scepticism from his tone.

There came a second nod, slightly more enthusiastic this time. "As far as we know... yes. They are. We were once too."

"Does the government know? Are they just hiding this—" Gilbert spread his arms. "—From all of us? What, are aliens a thing too?"

Helena's body seemed to wilt. He arched her back, staring into the grey skies above like some sort of world-weary grandma.

"We don't know," She admitted. "But we think the presence of these nations is known to the governments. We do have some proof, if you're wondering. Photos. Documents. _Official_ documents, actually. We have a website, and sometimes people submit things." Helena cocked her head, narrowing her eyes in the general direction of the computer. "...They're not very useful most of the time. A lot of our material comes from the work of actual conspiracy theorists."

"So if we're not actual conspiracy theorists, what are we then?" Gilbert crossed his arms. " _Bootleg_ conspiracy theorists?"

"We're not conspiracy theorists. Because we have something they don't have— _the dreams_." Helena glared at him, too pointedly. "Which you've also had, may I add. I still can _not_ understand why you're still acting like this."

"Okay. Fine! No need to get defensive." Gilbert held up his hands. At this rate, he probably wouldn't be able to get anything out of her without breaking out in another stupid argument. "So you people talk with the actual conspiracy theorists?"

"Not really. We simply go on their websites and check. They don't know about the dead nations." Helena made a face. "And the main website we use seems to be more _religious cult_ than _history interest group_ , but they do have a lot of... evidence. Disturbing amounts, in fact. Gaul retrieved the photo from their website."

"What photo? The one with her... her fucking son in it?"

Helena shook her head. "Not Lotte's actual son. _Gaul's_ son. They found it on some poor girl's blog. She went and wrote out her entire mysterious experience with someone who called himself France, and she had pictures. The pictures matched up with some old paintings. The theorists were convinced, and so was Lotte."

That wasn't creepy at all, trawling social media for shit like this, but Gilbert decided not to comment. It sounded pretty dumb, to him, at least. If he were some top secret immortal country guy, he wouldn't go around declaring he was East Germany and let someone take his pictures, and so that picture won't end up in the hands of his dead _mother_ —

"Hold up. France? Person-France? France is Gaul's son." Gilbert groaned. "So Nations can have children?"

Helena grimaced. "...Apparently?"

"Who's the dad?"

"There's no need for dads. Or mothers, even. Nations just…" She rolled her hand. "... _happen_."

"Oh Mein Gott. So you're telling me they're... They just— They divide. Like amoebas." He clamped his hand around his mouth. He could feel a chuckle just waiting to erupt. "Nein. Nein, wait. _We're_ nations. So _we're_ basically amoebas, and we divided into new nations. That's how we died—"

"We." She blinked. "...We're not _amoebas_. We—"

"We're aliens," Gilbert deduced. He wasn't even sure if he was joking anymore, but the more he thought about it, the more it started to make sense. If this was a conspiracy, he knew where it was going. "That's what you're going to tell me. So I'm going to draw the line _right-fucking-there_ —"

"Gilbert." Helena's hands went up, almost like a shield. "We are not aliens. I can guarantee that."

He exhaled. "Good."

He hated how his voice was getting all cracky again, and the strange, pitying look Helena was directing at him. Like he was some lost puppy who happened to be particularly fucked in the head. So he forced himself to tear his eyes away and pick up more clothes. They bunched together in his hands in a messy pile, which did nothing to alleviate his mood. Ach, well, at least there weren't any aliens in the narrative.

"...Though," Helena mused, arms falling to her side. "Have you ever watched any videos about the Hetalia conspiracy? Because plenty of the theorists link the idea of national personifications with extraterrestrials, including that website with all the evidence."

"I have no clue what the Hetalia conspiracy is. So, _nein_ ," Gilbert muttered, kneeling to stack the clothes back inside. "Sounds dumb."

"That's the official name of the conspiracy we're all involved in. Some Japanese hackers uncovered a stack of old letters a while back, addressed to one 'Japan'. They were all in Japanese, and they were mostly about someone named 'Italy' being ah... exceedingly useless." Helena shrugged. "Some thought they were written in code. Some thought the parties in question were the countries themselves. And such was the birth of the Hetalia, or rather, the, er, _Hetare Italia_ , conspiracy, which in turn led to plenty of evidence being found about the existence of the Nations."

"Lemme guess. The letters were all from W—Germany," Gilbert snorted. "Typical."

There was a long silence after.

Glancing back at Helena revealed that she was _smiling_ at him. It was freaky. "...What?"

"You're not wrong. They were." Her lips twitched. "Funny how you should guess that, considering how I barely told you anything about the letters."

She nodded at him, like a proud mother might at her child. Gilbert was officially very disturbed now. He cast her a grimace, and then he looked away.

Brendan was lying sprawled out on the grass, twirling a brilliant blue flower in his hand. Gilbert took a little too long remembering where that had come from.

" _Anyway_ ," He continued, as quickly as he could. "How're you so sure aliens aren't involved? I just had a telepathic dream conversation with Mr Eyebrows. Kinda surprised you didn't just jump right to that conclusion." He whistled. "No, I'm actually impressed. You've got solid lore there."

"Well! I'm glad you've asked!" She clapped her hands together. "I'm impressed too, with how you're finally coming around to the idea—"

"Don't push it."

"—That personifications exist! But it's like this. some believe that the Nations are higher powers, to some extent. Each is sent to watch over and guide the course of a respective human civilisation. For example, it is believed that the extraterrestrial sent to guide the Ancient Egyptians built the pyramids, and likewise for the Stonehenge, and Teotihuacán."

"Oh mein Gott."

She raised a finger. "But! The theory has one massive hole, and it is that the personification of a collapsed nation should return to the mothership to... ah, report its findings about humanity. Except _we_ are what happened to the dead nations, and they do not know that."

"So case closed, right?" He rolled his eyes. "We aren't aliens."

"But the other theorists are operating on the belief that the nations _are_. Hence, we don't talk with them... much." Helena coughed. "Khemet does not remember helping with the pyramids, and none of us came from motherships of any sort." Helena shook her head, smile still etched on her face. "...But that isn't important, I am just so very glad you've started to believe us."

Gilbert went silent. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Helena was right. He _was_ starting to believe them. Whether or not this was a good or bad thing was still up in the air. Very high up. He was pretty sure this should be raising more alarm bells than it currently was. Convincing him they weren't aliens shouldn't do _that_ much for their case.

He glared at the road, and forced himself to focus.

"Right. But you still haven't told me anything about what you think has happened to Spain. Or the bad guys." He raised an eyebrow at her. "You'd think that's pretty important. And I'm still damn sure we're going to show up and find zero nations there. You've been trying for a long fucking while, haven't you?"

"Fine. You have a point," Helena muttered. "If it does help, I will admit I didn't expect anything to come out of this trip either. Hassan was right. We've had too many false alarms, efficient as Khemet is."

"Oh, _great_ ," Gilbert groaned.

"But." It was Helena's turn to hold out a hand. "Your dream made me reconsider. I am now _extraordinarily_ concerned about this whole... situation."

"Situation?" He echoed. "Like with Spain-the-person?"

She averted her gaze. "Perhaps. And with Dietrich, as well."

"...Dietrich."

The name still tasted strange on his tongue. He could barely recall the boy's face, other than the edge of a familiar smirk. What the name did bring back, however, was the flood of foreign rage rushing into his system. Memories too far from his grasp.

It wasn't a good feeling.

Helena finally shut the bag, zipping it closed. "I... er. I am going to tell you something about him, and you must promise you won't panic." She raised both eyebrows. "...Again."

Gilbert folded his arms, pursing his lips at her. When had he gained a reputation for freaking out at things like this? But it wasn't as if he could argue otherwise. He'd done it _twice._ "Is it bad?"

Helena hesitated. "...Yes. And you mustn't tell Brendan any of this."

"Awesome." After his terrible bunch of dreams, he'd be able to take more, no problem. Sure. This conversation wasn't spiralling far from his zone of comfort, not at all. He nodded at Helena. "Bring it on."

Helena exhaled. "It wasn't an accident, his death."

Well.

 _Well._

"Mein Gott." Gilbert bit his lip, looking up into the overcast sky. "I'm not freaking out. Promise. But _what the fuck_. You can't just hit me with that—"

Helena's eyes widened, and both hands went up a little too defensively. "Oh dear, no. Just breathe, alright? Don't panic, Gilbert. The situation is under control."

"I said I'm not freaking out. Jesus! You're just making it sound so Goddamn— _Gah!_ " He threw his hands into the air, and Helena backed into the grass.

"Gilbert."

"You're not some shady drug ring or anything, so why the fuck—" said Gilbert, voice a little too high for comfort. He shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do is to end up stuck in a bunch of half-formed memories again, except in public this time. Not awesome. So he cleared his throat, and forced his voice down an octave. "'Aight. Not an accident, how? You saying he got murdered? What, tha— that people ran him over _on purpose?_ "

"Yes," Helena sighed. "Brendan thinks so, at least. He thinks it was Hassan who did it."

"The library," Gilbert realised. "Which was why he didn't want Hassan in the room." He sucked in a breath. "...He said you didn't trust him."

"—Did someone call me?"

Gilbert turned so fast he nearly knocked himself off-balance. Hassan was looking at them. So was Brendan, but he was pretty sure the kid had been staring at them for quite a while.

"No." She waved him off. "I'm informing Gilbert about the... situation."

Hassan blinked at them for several more seconds, jaw working as his eyes widened. The words never reached his lips. He tilted his head and looked back at the screen.

"Ja," Gilbert muttered, lowly. "You don't trust him."

She pursed her lips, glancing at Hassan. "We were being too loud."

"He killed the boy, didn't he. He killed someone."

Gilbert didn't enjoy the way his heart was pounding. His fingers had gone all tingly. It was like he could _feel_ the sweat beading out of his skin. It could be, Gilbert knew. That answer could be a yes. Yes, that guy _right over there_ killed a teenager. Yes, he was probably going to lose his Goddamn mind.

Helena's eyes widened. "No. No, no you have the wrong idea. Hassan didn't kill him. I trust him. But Brendan doesn't, and Dietrich didn't either. It was... for good reason."

Gilbert exhaled. His arms still felt like TV static in the worst way, but fuck. _Fuck._ He was not taking any of this well. He shut his eyes. No dreams. Great.

 _"Good reason."_ He prompted, an eyebrow raising. Helena was even doing the whole staring off into the distance bit. Bunch of fucking drama queens.

"Which will be explained in a while," Helena continued. "Else you get overloaded. Again. You cannot have your memories come back now."

"Touche." Gilbert frowned at the ground before him. "Fine. Let's say this really happened, and there are bad guys, and he got murdered. Why Dietrich? He happen to piss anyone off? Because I can really see that happening."

Helena exhaled. The bag was mostly repacked now. She moved to pinch the bridge of her nose. "First of all, we are _not_ calling them the bad guys. It is juvenile and you are defiling our cause."

Gilbert snorted. "Then what're we supposed to call them? The-morally-grey-but-just-kinda-misunderstood-guys? Because that's not gonna work out, especially if they— they killed a _boy_ and kidnapped some poor man!"

"No." Helena shut her eyes. "We call them the blacklisted nations."

It took Gilbert all of five seconds to drag that out of his memory, along with most of that afternoon. Oh boy, there they went.

"You mentioned them before."

"Yes," Helena muttered. She moved three books back and forth around the grass, shuffling and reshuffling them listlessly. "Do you... remember what they are?"

"Uh." He remembered the whole conversation pretty damn well, actually. Mostly because it was so strange. "When you don't look reincarnations up because their memories will turn them insane, or something."

"That's... not what I said. It's just that they're _volatile_. We've all looked a successor in the eye and realised it was time for us to go. But what if you weren't ready? What if they were a young upstart who took your strength, your power, your people from you? Maybe you were _wronged._ You don't want to die. You'd go down kicking and screaming."

"Oh-kay. Stop. I get it."

"Not yet, you don't," Helena declared. "...and then you'd return to existence, a new being, untainted by the horrors of nationhood. But what if those memories come creeping back? Your dying scream for vengeance, now fresh in your mind and you cannot stop yourself from hating and stewing in your own bitterness, voluntary or not. You won't be able to spend a moment without your past life assaulting you, your nation wanting to claw their way back into existence only because your memories are too fragmented to—"

"Enough!" Gilbert grumbled, stomach twisting. That whole description was getting strangely unsettling. "What about them?"

"There's a reason why they ended up blacklisted, and it's so their next incarnation can be saved. But until then, until they do pass on, decades and decades later, they're still around," Helena continued, still staring into the pile of assorted books. "And some... Some want their place in the world _back_."

That sentence was far more terrifying than it needed to be, that was for sure.

"So they all become bad guys? Kill teenagers? What?" Gilbert snorted. "That makes no sense."

Helena winced. "No... er... Not all of them, first of all. This is what we do when we determine a nation should be blacklisted: We cut them off. Without exposure to material, to people that might exacerbate their dreams, they should recover, by right."

"And let me guess—" He swallowed. It was hard, not to picture himself in that position. Trapped in his own mind, probably. Nothing but ghosts from a past life to cling to. "—They didn't."

Helena pressed her lips together. Gilbert could almost see the gears grinding away in her head.

"Ms Karpusi!" yelped Hassan, from too far away.

Helena did not look.

"Our mistake, I think, is that we never did try to monitor the active ones. We never bothered to check if they were meeting up, or planning things. Like a hare-brained vengeance plan, perhaps." She shrugged. "By the time Khemet realised something was up, they were already looking for more potentially blacklisted nations. To recruit."

"Like Prussia," he blurted out, for absolutely no reason.

"They're targeting Prussia now, yes," She muttered. "We're trying to stop them from doing anything drastic. If they got to the living nations first..."

A wisp of wind blew past them, and he glanced up. The clouds hung lower now, and darker. Even the sky was going all dramatic on them now. Geez. He shuddered.

"And what part of that plan involved killing Dietrich, for fuck's sake?" he pressed.

"No, no! You stop there! Mr Beilschmidt, Gilbert, please listen, the child—"

"Could you just _let me hear this!_ " he snapped.

Hassan went silent, eyes ablaze. Gilbert stared back at Helena. She had bitten her lip, and she was quiet. Judging.

"Our theory is that it was meant to locate Prussia. The easiest way to push Prussia to action, Gilbert, would be to kill someone close to him. And I mean this in the most objective manner possible." Her eyes narrowed. "He would want vengeance, and it's easy for them to turn it against us."

"So Dietrich is close to our Prussia guy." Gilbert stuck his tongue out. "And he's dead, because of that."

Which had to mean Prussia lived in their town.

"Well, er. No. We don't know who Prussia is, but we suspect they think Prussia is also _Brandenburg_... or, er... Hildebrand Meyer." She paused. "Brendan, as you would know him."

Gilbert blinked. " _What?_ "

So Brendan was Brandenburg. Real creative there (was that a fucking nickname?). Brandenburg was this whole state around Berlin, he knew as much, and Berlin itself was Prussia's capital. Prussia was Brandenburg-Prussia before it became Prussia-Prussia, which explained why the murderers could've made that mistake.

Because it _was_ a mistake. Brendan wasn't Prussia. That too, he knew. It was weird, why was he so sure—

There was someone standing right behind.

It was Brendan himself, homework in hand, standing two damned steps away from them. Of _course_ it was him, creeping up on them like the bastard he was. Gilbert did not jump. At all. He already did get the feeling their conversation had more ears than it should.

"You're saying that it's... my fault?"

His eyes looked like glass. Those horrible long bangs were whipping all over his face, and he was the definition of absolutely fucking crushed.

"I did try," Hassan mumbled, from the spot he was sitting. "To warn both of you."

"Whoops," Gilbert mouthed.

Helena only winced. Cornered again. Gilbert was starting to think Germans in general scared her. "...How long have you been listening?"

"Long enough," Brendan uttered, quietly. He met Gilbert's eyes for a split second. "I never heard about the vengeance. I never heard they thought I was Prussia."

Helena was biting her lip and looking all thoughtful again. At him. Like she knew something and thought Gilbert might know it too. Awesome as he may be, he didn't. He waited for a few more seconds, and _oh come on_. Why wasn't she saying anything? She was supposed to be the motherly one.

Except, he decided, she was shit at that. Truth be told, her sickly, half-hearted attempts at mothering irked him. A bunch.

But it looked like she was well and truly trying to convey something to him by staring at him like that, cryptically and all.

Her gaze jerked to Brendan.

It had to be terrible, losing a brother. Not that Gilbert would know how that felt, either. Because he didn't have a brother. But that was a _kid_ there, and no one was doing anything. If they were all going to wait for him to do something, it looked like he was.

Which was exactly why he sighed and took the two steps to Brendan. His cornflower blue eyes crept their way up to Gilbert's. He looked like he was ready to bolt.

"Look, kid," he began. He glanced at Helena. She nodded slowly.

"...If there's someone you gotta blame for Dietrich, it's Prussia and the blacklisted bunch. Not Hassan. Not Helena." Gilbert prodded him in the chest. Brendan was scrawny enough to sway backwards from the impact. "—And _definitely_ not yourself."

"Ah." Brendan swallowed.

"Dietrich wouldn't want you to beat yourself up over it. But he definitely would want you to beat _them_ up for doing that to him." He shot him his best grin. "We're going to do just that, y'know, when we get our hands on those—"

"Though, that isn't the point, of course," Helena cut in.

"Of course," Gilbert agreed. "Because vengeance is never the answer. But neither is blaming anyone. It's going to rip us apart. And we're so not going to get ripped apart before we get to prove this conspiracy is real. Am I right, soldiers?"

Brendan blinked, as if his teenage and also German brain were short-circuiting from all the positivity.

"Yes." Helena beamed. "You are, Gilbert."

"The fuck," he mock-snarled. "—Is that pansy-ass shit. It's _yes sir_ or nothing."

The smile dimmed. "Then nothing it is."

"Mein Gott, you guys suck."

Gilbert wasn't in the mood for joking, but it looked like that was where this was headed. But anything was better than having to think about all that shit he'd just heard.

"We do," she chirped. "I'm glad you've realised."

He rolled his eyes at her.

"Alright, unawesome Greek lady aside, chin up, Meyer. Was I right or was I right?"

"You're right," Brendan groaned. On the plus side, he'd lost the crushedness from his face. "I'm better now. Please stop. You're not my Onkel."

"That's you're not my Onkel, _sir_ , to you," Gilbert corrected. That earned him another frown. Ungrateful kid. "And now, Hassan, buddy."

"Yes," Hassan hummed. "...Sir," he added.

He still wasn't sure what to think about this guy. Complete pushover one moment, accused of killing teenagers the next. It was inspirational pep talk time, and he had nothing.

He raised an eyebrow, regardless. "You'd better not be the one behind the hit and run."

Hassan held up a hand. He could see it was all scratched-up.

"I will say this now. I am on your side, all of you. I will always be. The blacklisted have gone too far. And if they reached Mr Spain... we cannot let them reach the rest." He bit his lip, gazing right at Brendan. You may not trust me. I know I am blacklisted too. But I no longer stand for what they are doing."

Brendan licked his lips. He'd lapsed back to unreadable some time ago.

"We understand," Helena murmured. "You're far more trustworthy than that..." She grimaced. "...Barbarian. At least."

"Ah, ya, thank you," Hassan said, very flatly. "I am flattered."

"What barbarian?" Brendan piped up.

Gilbert was glad to see he wasn't the only one confused now.

"Treacherous mercenary." Helena waved him off. "The last person they recruited before moving on to Prussia."

"He switched sides, er, three times," Hassan added. "The rest of his branch moved to Rome after that. Very long story."

"Oh," said Brendan. "Speaking of Prussia—"

"Sounds like they didn't do a very good job recruiting him," Gilbert snorted. "They're going to do an even shittier job with Prussia, just you wait."

"Before we go even further off-track," Helena cut in. "There's the laptop. You were supposed to be looking up the document?"

The whole party turned their heads to stare at Hassan. He was still huddled on the grass, laptop falling limply to his side. One sheepish grin later, he was back to staring at the screen.

" _Speaking of Prussia_ ," Brendan repeated, louder and slightly growlier now.

"Right." He crossed his arms. "Ja?"

Helena inclined her head.

"I went up to tell you guys earlier, before I ended up overhearing those stuff, but—" Brendan sucked in a breath. "I think I know who he is."

There was a very pregnant pause — like, third-trimester sort of pregnant — which they all spent staring at each other. Eh, well, not exactly. They were both staring at him, Brendan with more intensity than Helena. His skin was crawling.

"Small world, huh," Gilbert grumbled. "Four German nations in one town in PA."

Brendan knew who Prussia was. Why was his stomach in knots? Maybe it was because Prussia could be someone he knew. Maybe it's because Brendan seemed so sure. He was lost along with the others just yesterday, but he changed.

Something must have happened, after. Yeah. After him sitting in the parking lot, the flower, the grey skies above. Maybe there was only ever one answer Gilbert needed to hear.

"Perhaps," Helena mused. "There's always been something about you Germans and reunification."

That was some bullshit right there. Brandenburg had never been with him on unification, because Brandenburg didn't want to _die_. No great power should be bound to some weakening other-half. But lo and behold — Reiner Beilschmidt, resident stubborn bastard. It was a fucking disgrace, for Brandenburg to cling on to life when he had no other purpose to serve. Prussia was meant for better things, and his brother-in-name didn't ever accept that.

So he found him at the base of the tallest oak in Sanssouci one morning, cane lost somewhere in the grass. Gilbert nodded to him and Reiner nodded back, and that was the last time they ever saw each other.

It didn't matter, anyway. He was climbing up to the attic again. He could see the steps as his boots cracked against them.

Some nations were just meant for more.

And then Helena cleared her throat. Gilbert promptly lost his entire thought train. Did she just say something? Or was it Brendan? Huh. It was probably just some kind of question.

"Maybe," he answered, professional as ever.

Helena frowned. "Yes or no, Gilbert. Don't _maybe_ us."

"He zoned out," Brendan groaned.

"Ja, ja. Just ask your question again."

Helena wasted another five seconds nodding and biting her lip. He was starting to feel she did that a lot. Everything always so _slow_ with her.

"Did you ever wonder why you decided to move here, Gilbert?"

He blinked.

"Wha—" Gilbert spluttered. "I just wanted a break from the family business. If I'm going to be stuck all my life being a carpenter, or… or renovating shit, I figured I'd wait till I was thirty."

There was actually the whole thing about his Vati getting him to go on a bootleg Journeymen Walz, but he wasn't about to launch into that whole other tangent.

"And so you move to a tiny little town in PA," she folded her arms. "Why here?"

"Because PA's the heart of our awesome country." He shrugged. "I don't know. It felt right."

"It's Prussia's heart in this nation," Brendan muttered. "That's why she came here."

His blood turned to ice. "What—"

"See! It's all connected. We're meant to be here. We all are. And you may not have been part of that plan, but your getting drawn to our town must be a good sign." Helena directed her smile at Gilbert.

Oh, so that was why Helena was here? Looking for Prussia? It made sense, but something got him to file this away for later. The weight settling in his belly, for example. Or the fact that there was that massive elephant in the room he hadn't yet let Brendan touch. Or! Maybe the elephant was the thing in his stomach all along, whatever the fuck that meant.

"Sounds fishy." He wrinkled his nose. This was it. "But, uh—"

He coughed. It wasn't any fault of his lungs. He just couldn't breathe all of a sudden.

"—Who's Prussia? Do we know him?"

Then he forced himself to hold Brendan's gaze. A second passed. Two. It was as if he were making some monumental decision within, but he didn't have to. Because Gilbert could form the words from his mouth before they came. Nein, he wanted them to be this… something. Oh, for Gott's sake, he didn't even know who he wanted Prussia to be, it was just some sick _something_ he couldn't name. But there he was, practically begging Brendan by the time the fourth passed; screaming bloody murder with his silence.

Those eyes of Brendan's grew guarded at last second, like a switch flicked.

"He's our history teacher," Brendan declared, lifting his foolscap papers and not quite looking at either of them. "Mr Adler."

"Oh yes," Helena breathed. Her lip twitched. "Yes, he was on our radar. He could be. I don't know him, but if you— Brandenburg, I mean thinks he is Prussia… then... My God. He _must_ be. How did we miss something like this?"

A dam broke in Gilbert's chest, like all his tension were escaping him at once. This wasn't the Something he expected, but this was better. Somehow. It was weird as all hell, but Gilbert almost felt he might lose everything that made him _him,_ if Prussia really turned out to be...

"Hold the fuck on!" Gilbert screeched. "Did you just say Mr Adler? Like, middle-aged guy, glasses, cane? Creepy-ass eyes? Horrible taste in furniture?"

"I…" Brendan frowned. "...You know Gerald Adler?"

"I forgot his first name," Gilbert admitted. "Oh hell. I think he said he was a teacher too."

This couldn't be happening. Mr Adler and his calm and beer and general normalness couldn't be one of them. He couldn't have all the bad guys after him. And come on, how the fuck was Gilbert the only one who got such a shitty former country? Jesus Christ.

"If your Mr Adler happens to have an ex-wife, then they're one and the same." He shrugged. "Probably."

It hit him like a truck.

"Mein Gott, he's my landlord!" he gasped. "Prussia's my fucking _landlord!_ "

And yet it seemed to fit. Somewhere, buried under all that modern stuff, he did kinda… seem old. No, not like that. Familiar.

"More connections. Fascinating." Helena's hands were shaking. "And what made you think he might be Prussia?"

"He… felt Prussian," Brendan muttered, a little awkwardly. It summed up everything

Gilbert was thinking. "And he likes History. He likes… um. Me. As a student. This might mean something, because _surely_ Prussia must have cared for Brandenburg even when he was no longer useful to him?"

Was it just him, or was he staring at Gilbert again? There was venom there. He just wasn't sure if it was for him.

"Very well." Helena's hand shifted over her mouth. Her voice came in all muffled. "Then we must act before the blacklisted get to him, whether or not he's actually Prussia. Khemet said they've found him." She gasped. "Oh no. What if Harrisburg was a trap? They could be there. Now. When we're _gone_."

Brendan reached into his jacket pocket and fumbled for his phone. "...I'll call Mr Adler. If I have his number."

"Here!" Gilbert tossed his over, and there was even more fumbling to catch it. "His contact's _Awesome Landlord_."

"Ugh." Brendan made a face. "I don't think there's cell signal here even."

"They can block calls, you know or communication in general," Helena warned. She blanched. "Heavens, when was the last time Khemet contacted us? If there were any updates, movements towards the town, she … she would've said something…"

Gilbert felt his eye twitch. "How the fuck do they do that?"

"Since _when_ could they?" Brendan growled. "You never told me they could. I never knew they were this dangerous. You made them out… to _us_ , to Diet, you said they weren't a threat."

He seemed to stoop lower, panic seeming back into his eyes, his frame. Maybe it had always been there. Gilbert just never managed to get rid of it.

Helena shook her head. "Because they weren't. Not until Spain, at least. Back when that nation was with us, he could only block calls on one line at a time. He said he learned it. It's... magic, or something." She threw her hands in the air. "...I don't know."

Brendan said nothing, but he was gripping Gilbert's phone so tightly his knuckles had gone white. He was starting to doubt the integrity of this poor fucking screen.

"Magic or not," Gilbert cut in. "We're still gonna try calling him. If not here, then at the hotel or some shit. Is he picking up?"

"No," Brendan whispered. "I can't even hear the dial tone."

"Please, just send someone back!" Hassan yelped. "He could check to see if something is wrong."

"You were listening?" Brendan recoiled, ear still pressed to Gilbert's phone.

"You were very close, and very angry," Hassan shrugged. "And I did find my document."

"No, no. No one is going back." Helena scowled. "It can't be safe. Any of us might die or be taken, if they're going the way they're going now. I'm important to our society. Hassan is a defector. Brendan has ties to Prussia. And Gilbert..." Helena sighed. "He's the only one who the living nations would recognise. We all look far too different now, reincarnations and all."

"Then fine," Gilbert snapped. "How about we meet the nations, say we're in trouble, then go back to the town _with_ the nations and rescue Mr Adler? If the Nations exist. If not, we do the same thing, but we spend the whole trip back yelling at Helena for wasting our time." He raised a finger. "Oh, and if we see Eyebrows, I'm punching his stupid face in, ja?"

"Ja." Brendan said, darkly. "I don't see any problems with the first part."

"I certainly do," Helena huffed. "In both parts."

"Do not do that," said Hassan, promptly foiling his awesome plan. He angled his laptop up slightly. The document he'd spent about half-an-hour looking for flashed into view. "That is Britain. Can we not punch Britain?"

"We're not punching _what?_ " Gilbert crouched down.

Hassan looked to still be on the Heptarchy document. Unless this was just another one with the exact same name. He lunged forward and forced the document up to its first page.

Helena and Brendan looked over from their position, before scrambling over to crowd behind the screen, thereby completely obscuring Gilbert's view. Damn. He sighed, re-squeezing himself by the side. But whatever the screen was displaying was large enough for everyone to see.

It was this spidery, red flow chart — clearly labelled _Britannia [Deceased, Missing]_ on top, and it went down several branches. The majority of them coalesced under the equally large label, _England [Alive, Missing]._

Several stray branches led to Scotland, Ireland, Wales (all classified under _[Alive, Missing]_ ), which he guessed meant they were all living nations. Cornwall and Brittany were marked with ominous looking _[Alive, Threat]s_.

But the most interesting parts were lines that ended with large black crosses, and **BLACKLISTED** in block letters. They swallowed the portion of the flowchart above England, which made — Gilbert squinted — the Northumbria brothers and Mercia, _[Deceased, Threats]_ , blacklisted. Beneath its cross, Wessex glowed an angry, orange _**[Status Unknown]**_.

"What happened here?" Brendan leaned forward. "It... looks bad."

"The Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, everyone!" Helena laughed, weakly. "There were seven of them, so they called them the Heptarchy. They kept fighting each other for dominance, but the Vikings invaded and they weren't very happy about that, then they eventually united under Wessex, I think, into England." She shrugged. "I've completely butchered their history," she admitted. "But that's the gist of it."

"Well, I'm glad they got their shit together," Gilbert noticed. "But it doesn't explain the crosses."

"Er, the three or four surviving kingdoms weakened, and turned mortal, and ended up killing each other in a terrible bloodbath," Hassan added. "That was the end of their personifications."

"Oh," said Brendan.

"...Which we have no proof of, except for Mercia's words," Helena continued, quickly. "But considering how they're like, it's ah..." She winced. "It's likely."

"That's just fucking depressing," Gilbert surmised. "And they just left England to fend for itself? I don't know about you guys, but those are some jerkass older brothers."

"She never said they were brothers," Brendan pointed out.

"Shush," went Gilbert.

"I don't know if they were brothers or not, but well, yes, there were more Viking raids, not to forget the Normans later on. Excellent childhood, he had." Helena wrinkled her nose. "...Who added 'threat' to Brittany and Cornwall?"

"Not me," Hassan said. "I do not even know who they are."

Helena shook her head. "Never mind. So, yes, the crosses are some of the blacklisted we're to look out for. But what's _more_ exciting is Gilbert sharing a dream with Britain! Hassan, what made you think that?"

"Oh, ya!" He pointed at the screen. "Click England."

Helena did just that. It linked to somewhere further down the document, to a photo. A photo of _another_ old black-and-white photo, at least. It was a bit worn at the edges, but the subjects of it were still visible — around ten soldiers, crowded in front of an old-fashioned biplane. Some were smiling wryly, but the general consensus seemed to be looking smart in their uniforms and bulky helmets, hands in their pockets and all. There was the caption _Group photo of men from 6th Airborne Division, 5 June 1944_ scrawled at the base.

Gilbert squinted. "What exactly are we supposed to be looking… Oh."

There he was. At the side, scowling away with his arms folded. Those massive fucking eyebrows he'd know anywhere.

He leaned closer. "Mein Gott."

There was no way this guy would look exactly the same 70 years later. The man in the picture could always be Eyebrows' grandpa or something, but Gilbert doubted it. He shut his eyes and forced himself to stare again. He was the splitting image of the man in his dreams, rendered in grainy black and white.

It was real. Immortals were real. _Nations_ were real.

He didn't even notice he was slowly listing backwards until he hit the grass. His tailbone got the brunt of it, but hell, that was the least of his concerns. They had to be faking this. But no, what was he thinking? He was being stupid. Ja, he admitted it. _Stupid._ He'd never even seen Mr Eyebrows before his dream. They'd never seen Mr Eyebrows at all. They couldn't fake something like this.

"Gilbert?" Helena said, gently. "You're hyperventilating."

And this meant they weren't insane. This was actual confirmation. He knew he'd been slowly getting sucked into their conspiracy over the last hour or so, and now he'd just blasted himself right past the event horizon. He was so going right to the nearest asylum with the rest of them.

It was real.

He looked up, away from the screen. There was nothing but grey skies above, the rolling of storm winds and thunder. He was practically daring it to rain at this point.

" _Scheiße_ ," he croaked. His voice cracked partway through that. "You're going to make me die of a heart attack one day, you know. You hit me with, like, fricking—" He counted to himself. "I don't know, five shocks in half-an-hour. That's got to be some kind of record."

"You'll do fine," said Helena, vaguely. She also looked like she was going to faint. "And so this is Britain. Look at him! Such a, er, fierce man."

"Like a lion. He is very majestic," Hassan agreed. "I could not tear my eyes off his eyebr— _eyes_ , the first time I saw this image."

"I'm having a crisis here, and you're swooning over his eyebrows?" Gilbert complained. "He looks like a rat that had two smaller rats die on his face, come on!"

"That is true," Hassan admitted.

Brendan set his hand down, scrolling past the image. A whole wall of text came after. Gilbert could see his glassy eyes flick across the page, and he felt his heart sink. He wasn't ready for more shocks.

"...You don't know if this is England, or Britain, or the United Kingdom?" Brendan asked.

Helena grimaced. "Well, for all we know, they could be completely different personifications. I personally don't think so, but there's been some arguing. Because that puts into question — are Scotland, Wales or Northern Ireland separate personifications? More importantly, are they dead?"

"Northern Ireland?" Gilbert repeated. "There's a _Southern_ Ireland?"

"That is just Ireland," said Hassan, the fucking smartass.

"I thought Great Britain and the United Kingdom were the same thing," Brendan muttered, "They… aren't? I never clarified."

"Finally! Someone else who doesn't give a shit about Geography. Never pegged you as the type, though, Mr Doing History Homework on the Car."

Brendan scowled. "...We never learnt this at school."

"They're not, but it's alright," Helena confirmed. "If you have any doubts, sound them out. We're all doomed if we walk in and act like an entire lot of clueless Americans."

A cold drop of something made its mark on his cheek. He brushed it off, squinting at the sky. Just their luck.

And come on, he wasn't even American in the first place! That German blood had to mean something, and he'd rather associate himself with Germany-but-a-person — they were real, he couldn't believe it — instead of some fuck in a cowboy hat, screaming about freedom and decked out in 'Murica-themed merchandise, because he knew _exactly_ what a personification of the US of A would be like.

But eagles were awesome, he'd give Alfred that.

"Mein Gott, I just realised—" He sat up. It felt like a chore at this point, questions carved from the absolute dredges of his wit. "Is America going to be one guy or, like, fifty guys?"

"One guy," Helena replied, flatly. "And we'll stick to Britain first. I'll just…" She sighed. "I'll try to explain the British Isles. And all of Europe, now that we're at it."

"I will do Asia," Hassan offered. "But, erm, is it just me, or is it starting to rain?"

Their eyes trailed back to the recently repacked piles of luggage, just chilling on the grass like a set of depressed building blocks. The next few drops of accursed rain rolled off the surface of his bag. And his arms. And damn, it was _pouring_ now.

He didn't get up when Hassan yelped and scuttled towards the bags, or when Helena murmured to herself and disappeared from his side. The laptop was still there. So was Britain, scowling away in grayscale. He did not give a _shit_ if he were England, or the United Kingdom, or just a man in his dreams, but suddenly it was so much harder to just look at him. Something about the water dotting the screen, because, really, Mr Eyebrows just belonged under rainfall.

The laptop slammed shut, lifting itself off the grass in the grip of pale fingers. When he looked up, Brendan was staring down at him, scene-kid haircut really amping up the emo there.

"Brandenburg." It came naturally enough to him, and he wasn't even fighting it this time. "Nice to see you again."

He watched as the boy's lips twitched. Glass eyes, like he were in a trance.

"Likewise." And then he shook his head, and some clarity seemed to return to them. "...We should go with the others."

So maybe there was a long, impromptu Geography lesson to sit through, and bags to haul, and Nations to track. But it didn't fucking matter. When he closed his eyes, Mr Eyebrows burned himself into his mind, and if he reached beyond, a boy in blond, swathes of gauzy veils. And somewhere above, he just knew his king was watching over them.

It was all real.

"Ja." Against all odds, he managed a laugh. Maybe he just knew this was what's meant to be. "I guess we should."

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

 _Journeymen Walz_ — After completing their apprenticeship as a craftsman, it's a tradition for French or German craftsmen to travel without settling down for three years and one day in traditional garb, with other craftsmen. I can't do this tradition justice, so please search it up if you're interested! Gilbert is not on such a journey, he may or may not have had a quarter-life crisis and decided to just set off on his own for a bit.

 _Hildebrand —_ Brendan's real name. He and Dietrich are named after characters in Germanic legend.

 _Reiner Beilschmidt —_ Brandenburg's original name.

I'll be back in November, I said. 9 Months later... Oh boy. XD I'm not sure if anyone's still here after such a massive hiatus, but yeah! I'm not dead guys! Sorry for the wait!

This monstrosity of an exposition chapter took about 6 rewrites and horrible amounts of agonising over a way to deliver the exposition required. 9 months. 9000+ words. Whew. It honestly feels like a weight off my chest now that the road trip is done!

Anyway, yeah, I honestly can't remember the questions/ stuff I was going to elaborate on I was going to mention in the Author's note, but do approach me if anything is too confusing. To be honest, the exposition was super heavy. But yes, the bad guys, the appearance of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms and conspiracies! Ohh man.

Special thanks to Queendom of Crows, who did some awesome fanart for this story! I'm not sure how to link it, but do ask if you do want to see it, I'll link their amazing tumblr :D Thank you for offering to read and reading my draft! I appreciate you so much!

Special thanks to Emma too. Thanks for offering so much support throughout the entire duration of my not being able to produce this chapter! Love you!

And Syntax-N, who's offered exciting theories for the past chapters! I loved reading them!

Hopefully, the next chapter won't take another few months to produce. Wonder what's up with Mr Adler ;) See you guys then!


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